


Origins

by bioloyg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Mates, Monster of the Week, Nightmares, Self Sacrifice, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Spark!Stiles, Stiles POV, Werewolf Mates, alpha!Derek, creepy original monsters, death mentions, emissary stiles, i guess?, minor POV swap in the end chapters, panic attack mentions, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioloyg/pseuds/bioloyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The person doesn’t respond, instead they move closer at an eerie and unhurried pace, as if there aren’t buckets of water falling to the ground right now. But the rain is probably the least of their concerns because it just bubbles around them, never seeming to actually make contact. It isn’t until they get closer that Stiles realizes he knows the person.</p><p>It’s… him. Stiles is looking directly at a mirror of himself.</p><p>His chest clenches. They’re only about ten feet away from each other now. Stiles stares at uh – Stiles B – and frantically covers as many of his bases as he can. Did he touch something at Deaton’s? No, and even if he did he’d only been working on a binding spell today, nothing nearly as serious as a duplication spell or call for a golem. Is he awake? Yeah. <em>Well</em>. Wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Origins

**Author's Note:**

> **A note to new readers:** You can skip the messages shortly after this one as they are written for past readers. For context, I have already posted this story once - rather than delete it and displace people's boomarks I decided to update and revamp it instead. So, to you I say hello and I hope you enjoy this updated version. It's probably going to stay somewhere around the 53k it was originally so keep that in mind. My works go unbeta'd so I apologize for any mistakes in advance.
> 
> EDIT SEPTEMBER 1ST, 2015: This fic is one giant mess I plan on revamping at some point, so if you're just beginning to read or you have bookmarked this and come back to it, it will probably be changed significantly because of how quickly I wrote this monster without like any notes.  
> As a warning, it may be deleted and reposted, so yeah... I'll try to let you know
> 
> EDIT SEPTEMBER 8TH, 2015: I'm about 20k words into the editing process of this fic. Once I reach chapter 8 I will delete most of the chapters and post in increments again. You won't see many notable changes in the first few chapters outside of the change from past to present tense. I mostly took out random junk that wasn't needed, tried to clean up the writing and character interactions tbh.  
> The second half will be a bit different though - more on that later.
> 
> Thanks for reading<3
> 
> EDIT SEPTEMBER 10TH 2015: HEY! I deleted everything but chapter one as you can see, I'm really sorry about that, but I figured it was the best option so your bookmarks didn't get deleted. What're the changes: wellllll, i changed it from past tense to present and I cleaned up dialogue, some miscellaneous info that was super unimportant and unneeded - I'm just trying to make it nice in case I decide to do a series basically. I hope you enjoy the updated version (It hasn't changed completely I promise, but some things are indeed very different.)

Forest fires, Mother Nature’s equalizers. Sometimes they appeared in show stopping fashion, flashing to life beneath the fingertips of electricity coming in contact with dry land. Other times they sprung into existence at seemingly impossible times where the weather was cool and the ground was damp and you couldn’t light a campfire even if you sold your soul to a devil.

Stiles liked to think those particular fires, where the circumstances were all wrong, were caused by magical creatures. Flukes happening in the alarmingly normal gene pool of things as mundane as deer and field mice. Not magical creatures like his werewolf best friend Scott, or magical like fire sprites wreaking havoc outside of their normal territory. Just plain old animals that had sprung from some mutated gene accidentally hiccupping a fireball at an oak or something. It was either that or spontaneous combustion, and having werewolves for friends, especially ones with tragic pasts, made one of those more likely. Things didn’t just spontaneously combust.

It was tangents like this that had Stiles contemplating the origins of magic; he’d been interested ever since he came into his very own powers. Sometimes he wondered how his spindly fingers could emit a spark that had an effect on the things and even people around him. Was magic really just that, magic? Or, could it be explained by science the way that the undulating movements of the sea could? The way that the seemingly never-ending growth of the Sequoia and Redwood trees was.

Truth of the matter, Stiles secretly hoped it was just magic. Inexplicable. Each day he sought out the answers to new problems, always needing to know how things worked or why. Don’t get him wrong, he loved the seemingly endless pursuit of knowledge, but he also knew that some things were better left unsaid.

But, this never stopped Stiles’ mind from traveling down the path of curiosity. As far as he’d gone though, he knew that the origins and inner workings of magic were probably much like that of an interestingly produced forest fire. Its presence and future paths could be calculated, in theory, and its start speculated upon, but in reality it was unpredictable, chaotic. And while fire was able to be harnessed or controlled, it wasn’t meant for mortal’s abuse.

Fires could very easily consume you.

~

“Stiles, you can’t keep avoiding the work Deaton is assigning you,” His dad grumbles into the phone, passing right over his usual greeting.

“Hello to you, too. And I’m not avoiding the work. I’m just postponing my pursuit of its conclusion at the moment in favor of magical and medicinal botany. Which you know I find way more interesting and need to practice anyway,” he fibs as he putters around his apartment. In reality he’s just afraid of what he’ll find when he starts cataloguing the ins and outs of his spark, as per Deaton’s instructions. He’s never really been one for introspection, self deprecating as he is.

“And by magical botany do you mean infusing alcohol with special strains of wolfsbane so you can sell it to the werewolves again or?” Somehow his dad still sounds disappointed even though it had happened  _two years_ _ago_. Bills were bills and college wasn’t cheap.

Stiles defends with, “They were all of legal age, and it was for science, dad.” He’ll maintain this fact to his dying day.

“They could have died if it had gone wrong.”

“But it didn’t, and I field tested it on some weremice. C’mon. It’s like you don’t even know me.”

“You’re making those up.”

Sadly, Stiles wasn’t. You give a kid a Molecular Engineering degree and some magical powers and suddenly anything seems possible. “You _know_ I’m capable. Didn’t even take magic this time, all I had to do was take the genes that express lycanthropy and graft them into the embryo of a mouse. It only took a couple of tries.”

“Of course it did,” his dad grunts.

Okay so like twenty tries and he might have accidentally created a new species when one of them escaped. Alpha mice were surprisingly strong and fast. Stiles frowns at the thought but continues, “Dad, listen. I promise I’m gonna do the work Deaton gave me and I promise I’m not gonna get into any trouble, okay?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Years ago a comment like that might’ve hurt his feelings, but he and his father are on better terms. They could talk about all of this now.

“Okay,” he says, amending, “I promise I will  _try my best_ not to get into any trouble. Besides. I’m just a lowly spark, there’s hardly any danger in that.”

His dad heaves an exasperated breath over the line, probably thinking he knows _exactly_ how much danger is involved. Anything with Stiles involved spells Trouble, capital T. “Stiles, you and I both know you’re the best emissary-in-training Deaton’s ever had.”

“I’m the _only_ emissary-in-training Deaton has,” Stiles drawls.

“That’s beside the point. You have two familiars; someone is bound to find that sort of thing interesting. And not in the nice way.” Apollo and Artemis are the familiars in question. But it’s not as if they’re different familiars with separate powers, they’re just foxes. Most of the time they act as a singular unit anyway – one he refers to as Leto.

Stiles waves his hand and paces around his dining room table, “Anyone in the supernatural community with a spark or the right powers could have a familiar, dad. Sometimes they’re a part of you or some magical animal that chose to link itself to you for a power boost. I doubt someone’s gonna find me interesting just because my magic pet rends itself in two on occasion.”

“You say that, but somehow you have a knack for attracting the attention of very questionable entities,” His dad points out, not for the first time. After a momentary pause he adds, “And regardless of the frequency of familiars, none of those people have **two**. Even if you only have two once a week, you have two.”

“Statistically speaking someone else has got to have two. Maybe even three.”  Stiles doesn’t want to think about it. His familiars are just an alternative means of conjuring and on occasion, protection. Mostly, they’re an outward manifestation of his soul – he hadn’t been lucky enough to attract some cool forest spirit to tag along with his magic for all of eternity no matter how many times he trampled through the woods, so he just made his own. At the end of the day, it wasn’t as important or awe-inspiring as his dad seemed to think. It just was what it was. He had two familiars and that was it.

“Stiles, that’s not the point of what I’m saying and you know it. Be _careful._ ” A heavy silence hangs in the air, bridging the gap between the two of them. His dad picks up again after a lengthy pause, quiet but stern, “You’re fresh out of college and I’m _proud_ of you, but you really need to be taking the work Deaton’s been giving you more seriously. You haven’t fully completed your training yet and Deaton told me that you could easily be drained.”

It always went down the worse case scenario path with him, which Stiles should really have expected. He lets out a low groan and tries to placate his father. “That’s my second time going to college, it’s not like I’m in my early twenties.”

“Yes, you are, you’re twenty-four.”

“Irrelevant,” Stiles says breezily. “And I’ve been taking the proper precautions! There are wards up here, in my car, and on the shop. Also, I hardly think I’m the one to blame for not being finished with training yet, Beacon Hills is a magnet for the crazy and supernatural. There have been numerous interruptions.”

“I know. I’m aware,” his dad says with a low thoughtful hum, remembering. “Son, just be mindful of those around you.” His dad didn’t have to say the _you’re all I have left_ for Stiles to understand why it was so important he be safe.

Stiles grips his phone a little more tightly and stops pacing, “Yeah dad, always.”

He imagines a wry smile forming on the other end of the line when his dad says, “I’ll see you next week. And I expect a full report on the work Deaton gives you.”

Stiles groans, “Fine, but I won’t like it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, yeah, life’s not fair and all that jazz. Talk to you later, dad.”

“Bye Stiles.”

Stiles shoves his phone in his pocket before grabbing the keys to his jeep. It’s his turn to watch the shop and Lydia won’t be a happy camper if he’s late again. Considering that it’s her date night with Jackson, Stiles weighs the risk. He almost enjoys pissing off Jackson more than he’s afraid of Lydia. _Almost_.

~

The shop is quiet, as per usual, on this boring and dreary Thursday evening. The spell books left out by shoppers neatly tuck themselves back into place and the broom sweeps up shop of its own accord. Stiles’ feet rest on the main counter as he reads up on binding spells for a commission. Apparently Ms. Welbourn is still being “courted” by one Mr. Hinker. With a last name like that Stiles can see why she wants him to leave her alone, ASAP. That, and he’s starting to sound a little bit like a stalker.

Stiles looks down at his watch, half thinking it’s about time he closed. But, it’s only seven when he checks, so he sets down his book to stretch his legs. This particular book he was reading is on loan from Deaton for use by the shop employees, aka Lydia and Stiles.

Their little shop has been running for about two years – since Stiles graduated college, a year early he might add. He spent the free year setting up the shop and planting his roots in town. No one else had filled the magical or spiritual needs niche so Stiles swooped in. Pushing aside the fact that they’re the only magical practitioners with a store within the Beacon Hills city limit, Stiles thinks they’re the best in town.

Whilst making his rounds in the shop Stiles tidies up some of the display stands and changes out the hyacinth he has burning for some anise when he starts feeling a little off kilter. For some reason he can’t quite shake the feeling of something wrong, it’s hanging in the air, but none of the wards have gone off in or on the shop and his protective sigils haven’t budged an inch. He wonders if he’s picking up a feeling from farther away and checks in with Scott and Derek, but neither have any news to report.

Stiles lets out a deep breath and scratches his chin. He’s hoping the anise will help mellow him out, but he takes some time to meditate in the back corner of the shop for added measure. Each breath he takes sends him deeper and deeper into a quiet space.

His watch chirps methodically at him when his hour arrives. Slowly, Stiles comes back to himself and feels at the energy around him. It’s definitely better, but something still isn’t quite right. It feels faintly like the air before lightning strikes, charged and dangerous. The aura of the shop itself is still light and calm though. Unable to find the source of the ill feeling, he decides it’s either just that – a storm about to hit, or attributed to his hunger.

He takes one last breath to steady himself and brushes invisible dirt off his pants before he gets up. He cashes out the register, snaps his fingers – dousing all the flames in the immediate area, and packs up the stack of books he created during his shift. Once he’s all packed up he blows a kiss at the shop, smiling lightly when it creaks happily in response. The only thing he stops to do after that is lock up and seal a ward and then he’s on his way.


	2. Rain, rain, go away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some free time so I uploaded chapter two again. With any luck you'll see three and maybe four later tonight. Enjoy!

Rain taps lightly at the windshield of his jeep. Five minutes pass and the pitter-patter turns into a dreadful never-ending splash. Stiles is only able to make out what’s going on outside his car once every two seconds when the windshield wipers come back around. He curses his need for curly fries and slows back down to the speed limit.

It isn’t until the windshield wipers come up again that Stiles realizes, a little too late, that something is out in the middle of the road. He jams on the breaks, mistake number one, and hydroplanes across a, thankfully empty, lane barely missing the object, but he does hit something else.

Stiles curses aloud and pulls down his vanity mirror to check for damage. There’s a nice bruise forming at his collar, thank god for seatbelts, and there’s a gash on his left eyebrow from where he still managed to make contact with the steering wheel. Aside from that, his mouth tastes like copper, but he ignores it and swallows it down. Irritated, he punches the airbag in front of him, both hoping to make it go away so he can breathe a little easier and just because he’s frustrated.

Once he frees himself, only about a minute later, he steps outside. He ignores the wreckage of his beloved jeep, knowing it’s probably awful just from the sound of mechanical hissing, and turns back to the road he just swerved off of.

Nothing.

Stiles walks into the middle of the street, now soaked down to the bone, and finds absolutely nothing.

 _Great_ , he thinks, aggravated, _I just swerved off the road, hit a tree and probably broke a rib, for no reason **at all** other then my overactive mind?_

He moves to go back to his car but is stunned to find someone standing a few yards away. His heart nearly stops and then starts up again at a startling pace as panic creeps across his skin, achingly slow.  _Okay, so there **was**  something._

“Hello?” 

The person doesn’t respond, instead they move closer at an eerie and unhurried pace, as if there aren’t buckets of water falling to the ground right now. But the rain is probably the least of their concerns because it just bubbles around them, never seeming to actually make contact. It isn’t until they get closer that Stiles realizes he knows the person.

It’s… him. Stiles is looking directly at a mirror of himself.

His chest clenches, they’re only about ten feet away from each other now. Stiles stares at uh – Stiles B – and frantically covers as many of his bases as he can. Did he touch something at Deaton’s? No, and even if he did he’d only been working on a binding spell today, nothing nearly as serious as a duplication spell or call for a golem. Is he awake? Yeah. _Well._ Wait.

Stiles doesn’t even remember putting on his sea– _Definitely dreaming. I am **definitely** dreaming._

“You’re an interesting one.”

His mind slams to a halt. That thing, _him_ , is talking now. He sounds the same as Stiles. Almost. Stiles B’s voice is more gravely, more intense and condescending.

Stiles’ heart crashes against his chest over and _over_. “W-who are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” They sneer as they step closer. “I’m **you**.”

“You can’t be me if _I’m_ me,” Stiles blabs indignantly.

His doppelgänger seems to think this over and then smiles. There’s nothing sinister about it oddly enough, it’s easy and carefree – except for the teeth. The other him has _lots_ of teeth.

 _What the fuck is going on_? Stiles wonders as he slowly backpedals, putting more distance between himself and the still advancing double. The closer Stiles B gets the more differences Stiles A picks up on, much to his discomfort. The biggest one: black and lifeless eyes. Stiles shudders at the sight and brushes at the protection sigils tattooed on his arms in hopes of waking them up.

Other him laughs, voice warping into something dark and grating, words almost visibly bubbling from its mouth, “You can’t protect yourself _from_ yourself.”

That is _not_ him. In a flash the monster pins Stiles to the ground by his arms and licks maliciously at its lips, grinning. Stiles reels back in disgust at the sight of the creature’s slimy black tongue and quickly mutters a semi-harmless spell at the thing – just incase they’re linked or something – and watches it fly backward.

He heaves a sigh and scrambles to his feet, booking it back towards the center of town, but to no avail because the crude mockup of him has its, now equally slimy looking, hand round his ankle. The pain he feels at the point of contact is immeasurable, and the thing takes its time dragging him across the asphalt, nice and slow like some sort of game. Luckily Stiles finds enough wherewithal to snap his fingers and causes the limb to disconnect – possible weird connections be damned.

The thing squeals at the loss of its arm, but it hardly slows down and slaps Stiles across the face with its other hand. The spark is knocked unconscious.

~

Stiles wakes up sweating, in pain, and screaming. He scrabbles at the sheets around him and almost cries out in relief when he realizes he’s in his own bed. Leto sits to his side, hackles raised. Probably not the best sign – must’ve stopped breathing while he was dreaming. Again.

The metallic tinge of blood in his mouth isn’t doing much to make him feel better either. He rubs at his throbbing temples until the pain crashing at his skull subsides and then looks back at the clock on his bedside table. _2:38 a.m._ Stiles groans and pulls the sheets to the side as he sets his sights on the bathroom.

He pulls his shirt off from the back in one swift motion and throws it into the hamper blindly before he groggily flips the light switch on. Wincing at the sudden intrusion, he lowers his hands in a smooth motion to dim the lights. When he finally opens his eyes again, it’s not good.

There’s a gash on the very same eyebrow as in the nightmare, a nasty case of road burn on his left shoulder from when he was dragged across the street as well as a bruise on his collar. He looks down and fights the urge to roll his eyes because, to top it all off, there’s an angry burn around his ankle – pink, fresh, and _painful_. He runs his fingers through his hair as he lets out a shaky breath.

“I’ve heard of dreams having meanings but I don’t think I hate myself _this_ much,” he mutters ruefully with one last glance in the mirror. This isn’t his first nightmare, nor is it the first time he’s gotten something out of it when he woke, but they’re not usually this bad.

Stiles leaves the issue for a later date and trudges back to his room to grab his aloe plant from the windowsill. He breaks off a chunk and rubs the exposed gel-like insides on his ankle. It’s no fun and he curses through clenched teeth at the opposing contact. Lucky for his troubled mind, his familiar splits back into a pair. At that he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding – that meant he was safe. _Safer_ anyway.

~

Unable to sleep, Stiles stays up to work on a few projects. He’s just about to finish up the binding spell for Ms. Welbourn when a minor ward is tripped somewhere across town. He sighs, sets down the comb in his hand, and looks back toward the clock. _5:09 a.m._ He scrunches his eyes in disapproval but closes them anyway to mentally patrol the town for intruding forces. Again, just as he’s about to finish – nearly reaching the point of the disturbed ward - something interrupts him, breaking his train of thought.

He lets out an annoyed huff and looks back towards the clock sitting in his living room. _5:51 a.m._ Something slams up against his door, startling him. _Probably what broke my concentration in the first place_ , he hisses internally.

“Stiles! **Open the door!** ”

Oh, Derek. Stiles hops from the couch and rushes to the door, opening it only to be faced with a very angry alpha carrying a very unconscious Isaac. He cringes, “What happened?”

Derek doesn’t answer, instead he pushes his way inside, low-level rumbling emanating from his chest as he goes. Stiles sighs and nods at Erica and Boyd to usher them in. Scott, from the back finally answers, “Something set off a ward near the preserve so we went to check it out. Whatever the thing was, it practically ambushed us.”

Stiles takes a moment to reexamine the wolves in his apartment. Isaac is laid out on his dining room table, which is now covered in blood and dirt – ew. Derek is off to Isaac’s side, setting his shredded leather jacket on the back of a chair. He’s covered in pockmarks and burns. Erica and Boyd look no better off and Scott looks like he needs a bone set.

The spark rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Erica, Boyd, can you guys go get me the boxes made of sandalwood from underneath my bed? Please.”

The two nod, though Erica doesn’t look happy to be doing busy work, and leave the room. Stiles turns his attention to the remaining three in the room. “Scott, sit down. I need to set your arm so it doesn’t fuse wrong – preferably right now. Derek,” Stiles looks at him and frowns. “You can explain to me why you’re here and not at Deaton’s.”

Deaton was the better of the healers when it came down to it. He had more experience. Stiles wasn’t exactly far behind but sometimes he found it difficult to concentrate when he was worrying about the lives of his friends. Plus, no amount of gore would ever fully desensitize him. Case in point, he nearly pukes snapping Scott’s arm bones back into place.

Derek, who was still in beta form, calms himself enough to shift back. Stiles notes that the burns on his arms still aren’t healing like they should, if at all. “Deaton wasn’t available.” A tense moment passes as he looks over Scott then Stiles, and he can see the moment Derek notices the scrapes and cuts on _his_ body.

His eyes flare red as he grits out, “What happened?”

Scott looks up from where he was wincing at his arm and sweeps his eyes over Stiles’ body as well, narrowing them when he reaches the bruise at his neck. Stiles sets his mouth in a firm line and looks away from both of them, choosing instead to focus on Isaac. He takes care of a few of the minor wounds by hand and then says, “Nothing.”

“ _Stiles_.” Derek’s growl reverberates down Stiles’ spine as his arm is grabbed.

He lifts his head, unafraid even though Derek is staring daggers through him, and tugs his arm away to reiterate, “It was nothing. Just had a bad dream.”

Tearing the remaining cloth from Isaac’s bloody chest, he calls back towards his room, “Erica, can you get me a shirt?”

He’s answered with a shirt being thrown in his face when she returns as well as the boxes he asked for. The shirt is up and over his body in seconds, covering up the rest of the evidence so he can avoid more probing questions. He rubs his face again and then looks between Derek and Scott. “Derek, just – check and make sure his arm is in the right place. I’m gonna focus on Isaac right now.”

The alpha scrunches his brows at the dismissal but goes anyway, much to Stiles’ relief. He focuses what energy he has in him on Isaac while sending his familiars to Erica and Boyd. Then, Stiles pulls sagebrush from one of the boxes and sets it in a holder to burn. When he finishes with Isaac he bandages Scott’s arm which, worryingly, is still seeping blood.

Stiles halfheartedly ruffles his best friend’s hair. “You owe me a new carpet dude.” It gets a smile out of him. Small as it is, it’s still a smile.

As for Derek – he’s taken up glowering in the corner of the room nearest the door, looking ever ready to pounce. Stiles rubs his fingers at his temples again to shush his impending migraine and beckons for the wolf, “Come here. You know how many wards are on this place. There’d have to be an army or highly trained wizard out there to knock ‘em down.”

Rather then relax the wolf seems to tense even further, eyes bleeding ruby red. Stiles lets out a long breath and decides to come back to him later when he’s done brooding over whatever it is this time.

Turning around, he faces Erica and Boyd. Each has a fox curled up at their feet emitting a soft blue glow, but their wounds are also slow to respond. Stiles huffs and grabs more aloe from the front room and gives it to the pair to cover their wounds. He grabs a little bit more and chucks it to Derek who looks at it like it’s some alien life form.

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns back to Boyd. “So, what exactly was this thing?”

Boyd’s eyes brighten into an impossible gold and Erica tenses by his side, grimacing. “Couldn’t tell. It was too fast.”

Nodding, he shuffles Apollo to the side so he can get a better look at the gash on Erica’s shin. As he presses his hand to the wound to heal it he asks, “And how’d Isaac get knocked out?”

“He took a hit for me,” Scott mumbles miserably from across the room.

Stiles frowns but is quick to reassure him. “Hey, Isaac’ll be fine. He’s all patched up now – all he has to do is sleep off the rest, okay?”

All three betas nod, equally worried it would seem. Derek’s cool grey eyes cut through the dim light and find Stiles again. He makes it four equally worried parties.

After Stiles finishes up with Erica and Boyd, having soothed the duo’s arms with an echinacea and burdock paste, he finds himself by Derek’s side again. “You gonna let me help you now or what?” Stiles whispers. The wolf is all narrow eyes and furrowed brows, the epitome of flippancy and disinterest. Stiles still found it amazing how much anger he could radiate through it all.

“I’m fine.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, though the movement is nowhere near as effective as when Derek does it. “It was a rhetorical question. If you were fine you wouldn’t be here. Now, quit it with the sulking and let me help you. Your betas might be all taken care of but they need _you_ to help them get even better.”

Derek’s eyebrows rise, but it’s not in shock so much as amazement that Stiles has the gall to speak to him like he’s five when he knows Derek could easily rip his throat out, with his _teeth_. Or so Stiles has been told. But he’s always been one to do stupid things – everything once y’know? – so, he takes another step forward and pries Derek’s arms away from his chest and says, quickly, “I suggest you let me do what I need to do so we can all go to bed.”

The wolf’s chest rumbles with unease, but his muscles visibly loosen so Stiles counts it as a win. His work is quick, but careful. He spreads the paste over the areas that still haven’t healed and anywhere else it looks like Derek put aloe. Occasionally the muscles tense beneath his touch, especially when he nears Derek’s neck, but most of the fight has drained from Derek’s face.

Once he’s done he lets out the breath he’d been holding and meets Derek’s eyes. They look impossibly soft, calm and collected pools of grey-green. But, whatever Stiles sees in that moment is fleeting and a scowl replaces the blip of emotion. When Stiles follows his line of sight he sees why. Derek’s eyes are trained on his neck, no doubt cataloguing the damage done to him by his dream.

Stiles doesn’t even realize that Derek is draining his pain from him until the tension in his own body unfurls all at once and he practically lets out a moan at the rush of euphoria replacing it. He jerks backward when he hears himself and swats Derek’s hand, which earns him a growl.

“Fuck off, you’re hurt.” Stiles rubs at his arm, still tingly from where Derek had dragged out all of his hurt.

The alpha’s nostrils flare and he pointedly looks away. Stiles would call him out for acting like a child throwing a tantrum, but he doesn’t have the energy. Instead he turns away and hums, “Alright, who wants to stay the night and eat pancakes at two in the afternoon tomorrow?”

He has half the mind to raise Isaac’s hand but he stops himself and settles for raising his own. Scott seems to catch it though and smirks, nodding his approval for the impromptu sleepover. Erica doesn’t answer because she’s pretty much down for the count, but Boyd nods for the both of them, shifting her closer to his side. She grumbles something unintelligible and grips at his shirt.

Derek quirks an eyebrow up in question when Stiles turns back around. A couple intense seconds of eye communication pass that end in Derek rolling his eyes and scooping Isaac into his arms before heading to the spare room.

“Good,” Stiles huffs. “The guest room is all nice and made up, as Derek seems to have noticed, so that’s where we’re gonna take this party. Scott, I have plenty of your clothes here so if you wanna wash up I’ll leave some outside the bathroom. Erica, I’m sure I have a shirt that’ll fit you.”

A hushed preverbal sound rumbles past her lips and then she yawns, “Ll’just sleep like this.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, but you’re cleaning the sheets if you get mud all over them.”

“Shut it, Stilinski.”

He ignores her in favor of Boyd, and Derek who’s now back in the dining room. “As for you two, I’ve got nothing. I can wash your shirts, or what’s left of them anyways, but you’re gonna have to settle for some of my spare sweatpants.”

At that, everyone goes about their business, washing up, changing clothes, and/or leaving them to be washed. When everyone convenes again they pick their places on the bed where Isaac rests at the center. Scott plasters himself along Isaac’s back while Erica and Boyd take the other side nearest the window. Stiles thanks the gods of foresight for reminding him to get a king size bed when Derek wiggles in by Scott.

Both Derek and Scott look up at him expectantly, and when Stiles doesn’t move immediately Scott sleepily mutters, “C’mon, you’re pack too.”

“Yeah in a sec I – I’m gonna go put everyone’s stuff in the dryer and clean up a bit before I do.”

Derek tracks his nervous hand movements before landing on his eyes again, serious and focused as he almost orders, “That can wait until morning.”

“You say that now, but I don’t want to hear anything about your delicate werewolf senses tomorrow when your shirts smell musty. It’ll just be a second,” he says with a roll of his eyes. Derek nods once in defeat.

By the time he gets back, after having transferred the clothes to the dryer and wiping up the blood on his dining room table, Erica and Boyd are fast asleep, tucked close together. Scott’s also out and he and Isaac are just as close, Scott’s arm now draped over his body. Stiles smiles softly but pales when he catches a pair of red eyes watching him. He hadn’t even noticed Derek was still awake.

The wolf shifts ever so slightly to make room between himself and Scott for the spark. Stiles hopes Derek doesn’t hear the way his heart stutters at the prospect. For some reason he thought he’d be able to climb in behind Derek or end up cuddled with Scott. Those he could deal with in silence. Derek spooning him though? Not so much. His mind would end up on the tangent of the century.

Except it’s not like this is a new development, he always ends up by Derek in the puppy piles. _Always_. So, eventually Stiles resigns himself to being little spoon and dutifully ignores how nice it feels to have the solid pressure of Derek at his back, keeping him safe. He sighs as the morning sun hits his face, spilling through a crack in the curtains and hopes he can get some uninterrupted sleep for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions feel free to ask :)


	3. Over the river and through the woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hit 2000 kudos today :) Here's another chapter today in celebration

Stiles wakes naturally around noon, curling his toes as he stretches upward toward the headboard. Behind him, Derek shifts, grumbling something, and shoves his face further into Stiles’ back. It’s completely tactless but it seems to do the job just fine for him.

The spark rolls his eyes and places a hand behind him to shove Derek back a bit so he can get up. What he forgets is that Derek had gone to bed shirtless, and _damn_ do werewolves run hot. He pulls his hand back like he’s been personally offended, and in a way he kind of has because Derek is in his bed out of necessity, not want. Sadly. That doesn’t seem to stop the alpha from wrapping his arm around Stiles’ middle to pull him in again though.

Stiles guesses it’s his rapid fluttering heart that rouses Derek from his sleep induced stupor. As soon as Derek knows what’s going on he assumes his usual glare, letting go and muttering something about Stiles snoring. He grumbles right back about Derek’s gross beard keeping him up and the two fall back into their usual dynamic effortlessly.

In an effort to get up he shoves Derek out of his space again and nearly sends him off the side of the bed. The sight of his eyes widening in momentary fear has Stiles stifling a giggle, but Derek catches it, flashes his sharp teeth at Stiles and clicks them.

Rolling his eyes, he slips off the bed, which sends Derek’s eyebrows plummeting in confusion. “Where’re you going?”

He frowns at the spot where Stiles had been then back up to him before scrubbing a hand across his face. When he yawns his cute little bunny teeth poke out from beneath his lips and Stiles has to fight the urge to sigh dreamily. He likes sleepy Derek. Sleepy Derek has way less walls and next to no inhibitions. Every time that Derek comes out Stiles feels like he’s peering into a world where he gets to wake up next to Derek a lot more often than he does now.

He snaps back to the present. He doesn’t have time for this, it’s too early in the day. Jerking his thumb out the door, Stiles finally answers, “Breakfast, obviously.”

Stiles had hoped Derek would just go back to sleep or stay with the others so he could eat breakfast alone, but Derek hops off the bed to follow him. Whatever, he can improvise. He takes it for the opportunity it is and silently makes a list of questions to ask about the night before.

“Orange juice,” Stiles starts, going for casual. He’s cool, casual, and calm. Okay, maybe not calm. Or casual. Or cool. But he can fake it.

“Please,” is Derek’s reply.

As he putters about the fridge he can practically feel Derek’s eyes tracking his every movement, and then it finally dawns on him – Derek only came in here to ask Stiles questions about _his_ night last night. Figures.

He spins around abruptly and hands Derek the glass, apparently jarring him from some thought, and narrows his eyes. “Out with it.” The quicker Derek just asks his questions and moves on the more time Stiles has to figure out what happened last night, and maybe come up with a plan if he’s lucky.

Derek tenses and then lets out a tiny sigh, eyebrows cast downward in curiosity. “What happened to you last night?” He thumps Stiles on his collarbone and lets his eyebrows raise again.

Stiles grimaces and sets about getting pancakes ready. “I told you last night, it was just a bad dream.” He pulls out a bowl and a whisk and sets a hand on the counter while he tiptoes for the pancake mix on the top shelf. He fumbles the box and nearly sends the mix scattering everywhere, but he catches it in the nick of time and only dusts the top of his head.

As he brushes the pancake mix from his hair he hears the wolf heave a suffering sigh beside him and just catches Derek pinning him with a look out of the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t even need to turn and face him to know it’s the patented, “Bull, tell me what _really_ happened” look.

He pours the corresponding amount of mix into the bowl and then hops on the counter to face Derek, who’s leaning against the kitchen wall, nonchalant. As his arms work he confesses, “Something attacked me in my dream,” but quickly adds, “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Derek looks him up and down dubiously, repeating, “Wasn’t a big deal.” He lifts himself off the wall and gestures to Stiles feet with his chin. “Why are you limping then.”

Stiles freezes, whisking coming to a halt momentarily. He hadn’t realized he was limping so obviously. His ankle wasn’t even hurt that badly. “Alright, so the thing in my dream might’ve tried to kill me and burned me a bit in the process. But it’s nothing I couldn’t handle. My familiars were there when I woke up. I just didn’t get around to patching myself up because I was busy with _other things_.” At that Stiles waves the whisk at Derek dramatically, losing bits of pancake mix to the floor, and then dips it back into the bowl.

Derek takes a sip of his orange juice and hums, non-committal. He doesn’t comment on it after that.

Stiles sets the stove to medium and slips down from his perch to raise an eyebrow at Derek. “So, anything _you’d_ like to share about last night?”

Shrugging, Derek sets his glass in the sink. “Ward went off on the east end of the preserve, we went to check it out, and we were ambushed.”

The thick pancake mix begins to bubble and Stiles watches patiently, waiting to flip it. Once its golden brown side is face up he says, “Yeah, I got the gist of what happened last night. What I’m really asking is _by what_?”

The wolf growls at that. “Don’t know. It was fast and dark. It felt like it was whipping us, and whatever it used burned our skin. I tried to land a few hits, but nothing was good enough.”

Stiles frowns, seeing right through his scowl and into the insecurity – his worry of not being a good enough leader. “I’m sure you did your best. Everyone is alive, you got them back here safely, and _now_ ,” he says with a flick of his spatula, “everyone gets pancakes.”

He means it, but in the back of his mind that lingering feeling from the day before nags at him. He finishes quietly, assuring Derek, “I’m sure Deaton and I can figure something out.”

Derek gives him a terse nod before leaving the room.

~

Breakfast is stilted and awkward. Derek leaves shortly after his and Stiles’ discussion in the kitchen, only staying long enough to tell the betas that he’s going back to the preserve to gather clues if they need him. Stiles tries to get Derek to let him put a protection sigil on his skin in case he gets hurt so he won’t heal all funky like last night, but the alpha refuses. Stiles is tempted to try anyway behind his back, but Derek has a knack for slipping in and out of places without so much as making a floorboard creak, so he misses his chance.

Scott leaves after him, having work to attend to at the vet clinic with Deaton. Erica leaves too and says she has… well, Erica stuff to do. Stiles doesn’t actually know what she does, he feels like she changes the answer every time he asks. Either way, she and Scott dine and dash. Boyd, having personal matters to attend to, leaves a few minutes after them, which just leaves Isaac.

“You smell weird,” Isaac says around a mouthful of pancakes.

Stiles raises an eyebrow to that as he clears the table – no one picks up their shit. “ _I_ smell weird? You’re the one with blood all over your pants. I took a shower before bed.”

Isaac hums on another bite before licking his lips and clearing his throat to speak. “S’not it. You smell… confused, or worried.”

He rolls his eyes, thankfully turned away from Isaac. “Of course I’m confused and worried. Some mystery beast attacked you guys last night, and I ended up with _you_ ,” Stiles punctuates this by jabbing his finger into Isaac’s chest, “on my dining room table. The very one you’re eating at.”

The beta frowns, “I’m fine now, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.”

Stiles’ skin itches at the implications of the statement. He crosses his arms. “I’ll always worry about you guys regardless of how tough you think you are.”

“There’s no need.” Isaac stands and brings his plate to the sink, resting against it once he’s finished.

“Isaac,” Stiles begins softly, “Pushing aside the fact that you’re dating my best friend, you and I have known each other since high school. I don’t want you to get hurt because you’re my friend – sort of – the pack part is just a bonus. I might not _need_ to worry but I will.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes at Stiles, but his body loosens up and sure enough, he smiles. After the silence stretches on a little too long Isaac adds, “I have work soon.”

“I’d advise you to take a day off, but I know it’ll be falling on deaf ears,” Stiles sighs.

Isaac’s grin grows devilishly wide. “You’re one to talk.”

“Shut up and let me check your _wounds_. I need to re-bandage you before you leave.”

~

With the house to himself and everything seemingly in order, Stiles picks his shirt off his body and throws it somewhere across the hall before he walks into his bathroom. He finally soothes the angry skin on his ankle with a proper balm and speeds up the healing process of the bruise on his collar as well as the cut on his eyebrow – no matter how cool he thinks it looks, it needs to go before his dad sees him.

The usage of his spark fades his forest tattoo into a murky grey. Stiles isn’t sure he can call the thing a tattoo though. The first tree that extended up the left side of his ribs had been a tattoo, but the rest just… sprung up, no pun intended. They’re all over his torso and arms.

It actually freaked him out at first, having a piece of art on his body that magically appeared, ha, and responded to his spark. And he _means_ responds – the thing actually moves, and it’s freaky because it looks like it should feel like something, but it doesn’t. He still doesn’t fully understand the mechanics. Deaton had a talk with him about the physical manifestations of a spark, so he grew accustomed to the responsive art and understood why it was _there_ , but as far as how it works, he has no clue other then the fact that it’s some battery bar.

Stiles likes it now though; it changes with the seasons, just like any other trees, and branches outward in response to threats only to recede again when necessary. Right now the trees sway every so slightly in an unseen breeze.

He gives one last poke at his formerly wounded areas and splashes water on his face before heading towards his room. A few shirts are piled up by the door keeping it from opening properly – all clean. Actually, he’s not sure if that’s true, so he grabs one and when it passes the sniff-test he pulls it on. And since it’s chilly out – it’s always weird and damp in Beacon Hills – he grabs a plaid shirt to throw over the graphic tee and then slips out of his sweats in favor of some dark grey jeans.

Stiles figures boots are in order since he’s headed out into the woods, so he sits on the edge of his bed to lace them up. Running a finger along the sides, blips of previous run-ins with fae flash before his eyes. The run in with wendigos from last summer left a gash in the side of one. There’s a blood stain from the time a harpy caught him as well as other questionable body fluids and scuff marks. At this point he enchants anything he loves to withstand a certain number of hits before actually showing damage (came in handy with his laptop in college).

Wiggling his toes in the shoes, he sighs. He wishes there were a spell like that for his body – not even his sigils or runes can keep him from sustaining extreme injuries. All they can do is boost his healing time or put up a temporary shield. And even then, he can only repair and prevent so much based on his energy levels.

But he’s far from helpless and he reminds himself of that. He can do this if he focuses, if he stays in the right frame of mind. In an attempt to do just that, Stiles centers himself and takes a steadying breath, calling on the air around him to draw out energy from his familiar surroundings. He looks at the clock. _4:14 p.m._

_It’s gonna be a long day._

~

Stiles parks the jeep at the edge of the preserve and plucks his staff from the back seat. He calls it his pet project, since it requires his energy and he’s always adding to it. It’s a twisting of hawthorn wood that comes down into a point that can easily pass for a walking stick, but under the right circumstances it lights up, all sigils and runes ready to fire. Deaton had him make it during the beginning of his training when he had trouble using his own body to produce magic – it was easier to channel through something else – but it’s been years since then, so Stiles tricked it out and put an iron spike in the tip.

He doesn’t take it with him as often as he used to, his hands and mind work just fine now, but that itchy feeling from earlier in the day is still following him around. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle in upset anticipation and it doesn’t exactly help that the wards on the east end are still being tripped.

He and Derek should’ve gone together, and not just because he feels uncomfortable right now. Derek has the magical nose, but there’s no way he could feel the energy shifts of the forest the way Stiles does. He’d be able to see it though. Stiles can too. The trees are scarred, probably from the previous night’s fight.

Some of them whisper at him, woodland nymphs trying to catch his attention. One of them dips a tree branch in front of his face to catch his attention and their upper body becomes visible against the bark, sea foam green to blend in with the lichen covering the tree. No words come from their mouth as they point Stiles in the direction of upset. Even so, it’s helpful. He thanks the nymph by sending a little of his energy their way, bringing the tree shuddering back to full health.

The offended ward is _still_ thrumming at the base of Stiles’ skull by the time he reaches the area the nymph had shown him. He thought it had gotten better, but standing in the scarred grove Stiles feels as if the disturbance has amped up a notch. He clenches his jaw and tries to work through it, thoughts going a million miles a minute to address the different energies in the air around him to identify the threat.

 _Now would be a good time to wake up some of those sigils on my arm,_ He thinks. No sooner does he do it, three different wards come screeching to life. He can’t help the whimper that escapes him – he’s lucky he doesn’t fall over. One ward alarming is bad enough as it is, but _three_? On top of the alert buzzing in his skull, Stiles feels something is claw its way through one of them and every bit of it is echoed onto his body in the form of blinding pain. Ward after ward after ward flares to life and whatever the thing is gets closer and closer to him.

Stiles readies himself for the fight, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, and calls out nervously, “Derek, I know you’re out here – if you can hear me, now would be a really good time for you to find your way to me.”

The few tree nymphs left in the area cause their trees to shiver and rustle in warning as the creature bursts through the tree line. It’s black and slimy, humanoid in shape but nothing else.

  _Is it dripping or is that it’s energy rippling off of it?_ Stiles can’t tell. He grips the staff in his hands and shoos the remaining interfering thoughts. Being the son of the Sheriff has him calling out features, partially so he’ll remember and partly because Derek should know in case something happens to him. “Uh – this thing is huge Derek, hurry up. Seven foot tall blackish entity. Humanoid, uh, pulsing, and no face or eyes.”

The thing tilts what should’ve been its head back, splitting its face in two to reveal a mouth laden with rows of sharp teeth.

“Eugh,” Stiles starts, backing away slowly. “Shark-like teeth and a disgusting –” _slimy black tongue_. His thoughts come screeching to a halt.

“You’re that thing from my dream,” he whispers in disbelief.

The monster’s face bubbles and pops before Stiles’ eyes, transforming into a dark lifeless eyed version of him. For whatever reason Stiles didn’t pick up on the fact that this thing was a shifter when he was parsing through the energies in the forest earlier – but it doesn’t exactly look like one. It’s not mimicking Stiles’ figure under the pretense of fooling anyone, it’s…

“…You – you’re copying my powers.”

Stiles B cracks his neck and smiles, dangerous and sharp. “Do you remember what I said last night?” Its eyes begin to glow around the edges.

Stiles A notes that its voice sounds even more horrifying in real time – garbled and broken. The tattoos on his body bristle in response, readying for a fight. “I was too busy cutting off your arm to pay attention.”

The smile disappears from the thing’s face and the glowing corners of its eyes turn crimson. Its voice bursts in a deafening shriek riddled with static interference, “I _said_ you can’t protect yourself _from_ yourself.”

Before Stiles can spit back some witty rejoinder the creature dashes forward. He barely falls to his knees in time to avoid the sharpened edge of what should have been an arm. Turning swiftly, he presses a notch in the staff to reveal the iron tip, swings out, and catches Stiles B on the back of his calves.

The legs morph into their previous tarlike state, hissing as the parts reconnect. It isn’t long before the affected area is healed and the beast is swinging again.

Stiles twirls his staff to stave off hit after hit but it leaves him next to breathless, barely able to call out minor incantations to knock the beast off its course. He doesn’t realize that he’s been backed into a tree until it’s almost too late – he rolls just in time, missing a strike to the head.

The spark rounds on the other him and jabs it in the stomach with the broad end of his staff before whipping it around and slashing it in the face. He uses his newfound momentum and spins, landing a kick in what should have been ribs. Instead the body dents like playdoh and spiders around his boot, sucking him in. He struggles to break free but the thing wraps a searing claw against his newly exposed ankle, the same one as before. A yelp is punched out of his body as Stiles B slams him into the tree he had backed into moments ago.

The wood nymphs rustle in irritation and snap branches at the beast sending it hurdling backwards. The momentary reprieve gives Stiles enough time to gather his wits and call up his spark to cast fire at the monster. For a moment he’s flooded with relief as the thing is engulfed in flames, he grasps his battered side and lets out a huff. But, it’s short lived.

The creature stands, hardly bothered by the fire licking away at its assumed form, turning it into a bubbling mass of black goo again, and redirects the energy back at Stiles. He barely has time to accept it, spinning his staff once to send it off into the atmosphere. However, he does shoot the iron spike from his staff at the thing before it can do anything else, pinning it to a tree.

Always one for a dramatic entrance, Derek’s angered roar is heard just seconds before he bursts through the tree line. The slimy mass of black ripples around the edges, tears itself in two in order to escape the spike, and retreats while Derek rids himself of his clothes. His bones crack and rearrange before folding into the appearance of a large wolf, dark as the night sky and twice as brilliant.

Stiles can’t even get out, “ _Derek, no!_ ” before the wolf darts off towards the slithering mass. He lets out an aggrieved groan and runs to the tree where the thing was and slams his staff into the spike to retrieve it.

Just as he reaches the beast, Derek is being thrown into a tree. Smoke rises off his body in thick wisps where he’s been hit. The thing spins toward Stiles, but the spark slashes it in its throat sending the head toppling off. Before he can gloat another forms its place as the first, now a puddle-like blob, screeches back to its host.

Stiles shudders internally, and in his pause Derek tackles the thing into the ground before it can reach the spark. The humanoid mass reforms into a wolf not much unlike Derek, impressively massive, but with yellow eyes. He makes a mental note that the beast might not be able to copy the full power of its adversary as the two wolves battle one another ferociously.

Derek lands blow after blow, and bite after bite, only to be smacked backwards. Having seen enough, Stiles circles his staff in the air above him as if stirring the clouds. The sky above darkens and the clouds coalesce into a storming mass.

“Derek,” Stiles begins in a strained voice, “Get out of the way!”

The red eyed wolf shoves the other away and darts toward the tree line, thankfully understanding. It leaves Stiles with just enough time to strike his staff into the ground in tandem with the burst of lightning that zaps the beast. The borrowed form is sent shattering to pieces that spread throughout the forest floor.

Knowing his window of opportunity is likely narrow, Stiles dashes through the pain in his ankle to Derek’s side and uses the last bits of his power to muster up a spell to get them the hell out of the forest.

He grabs onto the fur of Derek’s neck tightly and warns him, “Breathe out for this.”

With a few more words, archaic and long forgotten, the air ripples around them, expanding into a bright white light. Only a circle of singed grass and leaves is left in their wake. The woodland nymphs rustle no more.


	4. Elixirs and elegies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

Stiles jolts into consciousness sucking in a greedy lungful of air when his body senses a malicious energy hanging over him. It’s only Derek in his human form, furious – which _is_ pretty malicious if you ask Stiles whenever he’s done something stupid.

The spark grumbles and rubs at his temples but Derek pushes his hands away from his face, practically spitting, “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

He shoves the wolf back as much as he can and takes a moment to breathe before sitting up. It sends the world around him spinning, so he closes his eyes for a minute before he says, “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Derek. I think a lot of things.”

He’s answered with fiery eyes and that composed irritation Derek’s probably been honing since his diaper days. Stiles would make a joke, but he thinks better of it when his mind finally registers the deep rumble emanating from Derek’s chest.

“What were you doing in the preserve alone?”

He narrows his eyes at the alpha. “Hold up – stop that. Stop that ‘weak human’ shit before it starts. You and I both know I held my own back there.”

Wrong answer apparently because Derek practically snarls his next words, “You could have gotten _killed_. Do you even know where you are right now, or what day it is?”

Rubbing a hand over his cheeks, Stiles takes a look at his surroundings for the first time since waking up. There are some cabinets, medical supplies, dim lighting, and a cold metal table situated under his ass. They’re in Deaton’s medical examination room, Stiles surmises. Derek’s in a pair of emergency sweats still and it’s dark out, so Stiles guesses it’s only a little bit later in the day.

“Well I do now that I’ve had some time to think without you breathing angrily down my neck.”

Derek crowds further into his space just to irritate him. Stiles can feel his smug energy, but it doesn’t show up on the wolf’s face as he asks, not for the first time, “What were you doing in the preserve?”

Stiles wants to laugh again, because he knows Derek knows. What’s the point of asking? Does he just want to hear Stiles say it so he can yell at him? The spark scrunches his eyebrows and pushes Derek out of his space again so he can stand, but his ribs scream in protest causing him to lose balance.

The wolf grabs him and guides him back toward the table’s edge while Stiles huffs, “Are you really asking that right now?”

“ _Stiles._ ” It would probably be more intimidating if Derek’s eyes weren’t filled to the brim with concern. He follows the wolf’s line of sight and sees that there’s a wonderful purple-blue bruise forming on his ribs where he’d been smacked into the tree.

Stiles checks his other limbs and mumbles back, “I was looking for clues, same as you.”

“And you went alone.”

Stiles clenches his fists and tears his eyes from his body to glare at Derek. “Do you hear yourself? You literally did the same exact thing; you can’t use that against me!”

The wolf raises his eyebrows. “You went toward the fight, I didn’t.”

He clicks his jaw shut for a moment to stop the sound of sheer frustration from escaping, but opens it again to hiss, “I wasn’t _trying_ to get into a fight – despite what you seem to think of me. I just wanted the wards to _stop_ , they wouldn’t stop _buzzing_ , and it kept getting worse and I – I don’t expect you to get it,” he trails off and Derek’s hardened gaze falls just a bit.

“I wanted to figure out what that thing was and then even more of the wards got torn into and I felt _everything_ ,” he shudders, “and then it burst out of the woods.”

Stiles shakes the feeling from his skin and tries to step forward to get his shirt – which is presumably sitting on Deaton’s chair because said druid examined him – but Derek catches him before he can hit the floor again and pushes him back onto the examination table. At Stiles’ hiss of pain, he says, “You probably broke something,” and then shoves the shirt into his arms.

His head pops up from inside the shirt. “Wouldn’t be the first time and it’s probably not the last.”

Derek just sighs and turns toward the door right as Deaton enters. The vet nods in greeting and turns toward Stiles. “Glad to see you awake.” His voice carries little expression other then a twinge of sarcasm layered over concern. Stiles thinks he might be making up the concern part.

More focused on rolling up his pant leg to identify the source of pain, Stiles barely answers, “Hey doc.” When he’s gotten the denim out of the way he almost gags at the sight of the smoky black handprint that’s been burned into his flesh. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw before sitting back upright. “Usually you take care of stuff like this before I wake up.”

“Don’t take it for granted,” Deaton begins as he comes to Stiles’ side. “Your protection sigils were still activated when I tried last.” A small, but healing, pink burn sits on the curve of his palm.

Stiles blanches and quiets them with a gentle brush of his hand over his left arm and part of his chest. “Lot of good they did. Sorry.”

Deaton scrunches up the shirt Stiles just put on and brings his hands to the ribs resting underneath. “It’s of little consequence,” he says with a cold prodding hand. “I see you’ve mastered the transportation spell.”

A nod. “Yeah it – that was the first time I’d done it with myself or anyone else though. I’m surprised it worked to be honest.”

Derek’s face darkens and his posture stiffens across the room. Stiles probably should’ve saved that bit of information for later when sensitive ears weren’t present. It’s not like anything would’ve gone wrong though, they just wouldn’t have transported. Or at least Stiles thinks that’s how it works – there _was_ the case of the missing apple he had yet to solve though.

Deaton’s hum of agreement sends him back to the present, as does the healing hand that finds its way to the swollen mass Stiles used to call his ankle. His knuckles drain of all color, burning bright white as he tightens his grip around the edge of the table.

“What warranted the usage of that spell?”

Stiles looks to Derek, chest heaving as the pain rockets up a notch, and cocks an eyebrow up at him, curious as to why he hadn’t informed Deaton already. He gets a nonplussed huff in response.

“Creature i-in the woods,” he stammers. “Jesus fuck this hurts. Did it hurt this bad for you?” he hisses in Derek’s direction. When he opens his eyes again Derek is closer, pulling his hand from the table to channel the pain up, out, and away. Stiles would push him away if his hand wasn’t glued to Derek’s, clinging as if he were a life preserver.

Ignoring all of that Deaton continues to sift for information. “And what was it?”

“No idea.” He looks up at the ceiling and just catches the softened look on Derek’s face. Before he can assess it it’s gone.

“Seems the animal may have burned all the way down to your bones. Though I’m not sure burn is the correct term.”

Speaking through gritted teeth Stiles manages to spit out, “What _is_? And when will this stop hurting?”

“Considering this may have been an energy drain and not mere injury – not for a while, certainly longer than normal,” Deaton informs him curtly before taking his hand away.

With the druid’s hand goes most of the pain, but a pronounced throbbing takes its place. He can’t tell whether the disappearance of pain is due to Derek or the fact that his cells don’t have to regenerate and replace the completely ruined ones anymore now that Deaton stopped prompting them to do so so quickly. Regardless, Stiles takes his hand from Derek’s and sends him a pointed look, frustrated once again by the fact that the wolf hasn’t taken care of his own wounds yet.

The wolf looks away before he can even think of vocally addressing the situation and Deaton swoops into the vacant space between the two of them with a mystery balm. From the distinct pinch to it Stiles guesses witch hazel. It doesn’t shoo the throbbing upset in his bones, but it does cool his skin and at that he lets out a long sigh. Deaton continues, methodic and efficient, and wraps the spark’s ankle in pre-wrap, and then again with an ace bandage.

“Brings me back to lacrosse,” he laughs weakly.

Derek frowns down at him but says nothing.

_The silence brings me back to high school, too._

“So this creature,” Deaton says as he clasps the ace bandage to itself.

Stiles looks away from Derek. “Hm? Oh, right. It was, uh, black and slimy looking, like it was oozing, but it also looked like it was a cloud of smoke trapped in some plastic body. And it was tall and had nothing other than a mouth with a lot of teeth – no eyes, nose, or fingers really. At least in its original form.”

“Its original form?”

Stiles wonders if Deaton even bothered to catalogue the other parts or if he just kept that one. He narrows his eyes at the vet but elaborates as he begins taking care of some of his other cuts, breaks, and bruises with what little energy he has left. “Yes. It had two forms. Some sort of resting state and then the form of whatever it was fighting. It wasn’t shape shifting though, not really. It was more like the thing was leveling the playing field. Wouldn’t put it past the thing to pick the strongest creature it’s copied in the next fight.”

Both Deaton and Derek raise their eyebrows – though Derek was probably more focused on the words _next_ and _fight_. So, Stiles answers his unspoken question. “It’s not going anywhere and you know it. It’s looking for something – food probably if what Deaton said about my ankle is right. When I was looking for clues I passed through a space of the preserve that was damaged – the nymphs there were pissed because their trees were dying.”

Where Deaton looks contemplative Derek looks pissed. Stiles ignores it and Deaton is oblivious to the silent argument currently going on as he goes to thumb through a book from his shelf. “Did the nymphs speak with you?”

“No. They’re not big on talking to humans, and even if they were today I didn’t have time to ask questions.”

Deaton hums and closes the book in his hands before grabbing another, bigger, one. “Was that all?”

It sounds like a dismissal, which has Stiles bristling, but he calms when he remembers that he does have something else. He still crosses his arms petulantly before he says it, haughtily, “My dream.”

“I’m assuming you’re referencing one you had while sleeping and not your dream of becoming a,” he waves his hand as he tries to recall, “What was it, a magical firefighter?”

Derek looks at him with wide eyes that are somehow not surprised at all. Stiles sighs and corrects Deaton, “That was a business idea, not a dream. If magical beings can control fire or call it up I don’t see why people insist on using limited resources, like water in California, to put out fires.”

The veterinarian seems to consider this while reading but adds, “Stiles, I don’t think you grasp just how rare a control of the elements is.”

He frowns. “What is it like some avatar thing, you only get one per lifetime or what?”

Derek rolls his eyes and sits in the corner of the room, bored by the conversation since it lacks any and all information important to him. Deaton, on the other hand, brushes the comment off, “No, now back to this _dream_.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw it in my sleep. I thought it was another mare trying to haunt me, or my magic revolting again, because I woke up with marks on my body where I’d gotten them in my dream, but it was that thing.”

From the corner Derek finally pipes up, clearly aggravated by this new information. “You didn’t think that was important when I asked. Something attacked you in your dream, and now in real life, and it wasn’t a big deal.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face, recalling his words from earlier in the day with Derek. “I didn’t exactly know the thing in my dream was what attacked you guys in the preserve last night. It looked like me! Mostly… I figured my spark was on the fritz again, besides I had my familiars. I didn’t die or anything. I’m _fine_.”

Deaton ah’s in the background just as Derek lets out a long breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your measure of fine is whether you die or not.” Somehow the statement sounds defeated and pissed at the same time, and Stiles thinks that must be another werewolf power because he doesn’t know any humans who can pull that off.

While momentarily impressed it’s surface level only. Beneath that his blood boils and around them the air shifts almost visibly as he cuts back, “When you’re constantly breaking bones, bleeding out, and watching the people around you die, yeah, being alive at the end of the day becomes a measure of how  _fine_  things are.”

Deaton looks up from his book and to his desk where a few papers start to smolder at the edges. He sets the tome down and interrupts, “Derek, leave us for a moment.”

He does, albeit grudgingly. Deaton presses a damp cloth to the papers to save them, then the leather bound book is shelved as the doors to the room slam shut.

“You’re still setting things on fire.”

“I got upset. It doesn’t happen as often anymore.” He breathes slowly, four seconds in, seven seconds out and shrugs off the internal upset. His fists unwind from where they’d been clamped around his arms.

“But it still happens.”

Stiles slides off the table and hops to grab the pair of crutches waiting for him by the door and then slides them under his arms. He reiterates, “Not often.”

The grim look on Deaton’s face is almost enough to stop him thinking. “You need to finish the work I’ve given you. It’s the last step until you build the totem to permanently ground your spark.”

“I will.”

“Soon,” Deaton orders.

He nods. “Soon.” Before he passes through the doorways he turns back to the current emissary. “Do you have any advice for what to do about the wards? That thing tore through them like butter.”

The druid smiles, though it’s bleak. “Tweak for what you know, use extra precautions for what you don’t.”

 _Vague as ever_ , Stiles sighs internally. “Thanks.”

~

“ _Shit_ , Roscoe.” Stiles groans belatedly, already in Derek’s car. His hand clamps down on the wolf’s arm.

Derek lifts his eyebrows and looks down at Stiles’ hand until he has the mind to take it away. Looking back at the road Derek finally says, “I had Scott drive it back to your apartment.”

Stiles tenses at the thought. He doesn’t exactly enjoy other people driving his baby. Scott is hardly the exception to the rule because his mastery of stick shift is questionable at best, but he’s probably as close as anyone can get, so Stiles lets it go long enough to ask, “Anyone tell my dad anything?”

Derek’s exhale is quick and sharp. “No. Scott got the jeep before he or anyone else could spot it.”

“Good. I like being able to tell him myself.”

“I know.”

The spark drums a beat on his thighs in sync with the scenery passing outside. “Well. Thanks.”

He almost misses the nod Derek gives him in return.

“Hey, can you take a left up here? I need to go back to my apartment to grab a few things.”

“For?”

“I need to patch up the wards that were broken through,” he states plainly before scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. The feeling of the wards being torn still feels fresh, almost like a brand across his skin. He half expects to be able to feel a physical mark on his neck, but nothing is there.

Derek looks over at him briefly, following the hand. “It’s late. You’re not going back out there alone.”

Stiles drags his hand away and looks down at his phone. _11:32 p.m._ “Fine. I still want to go home though.”

“I don’t think you should be alone.”

He narrows his eyes at Derek. His sharp features are lit up by the display of the car, but it’s not enough for Stiles to parse out what exactly is going through Derek’s mind right now – not that he ever really can. As he stares he slowly assures Derek he’s fine, “I have my familiars, it’ll be alright. Besides, I have things to do. I want to go home.”

“Things.”

Fiddling with his crutches, he answers, “Mhmm, _things_. I’m gonna go through the electronic bestiary, maybe even some of the older ones. I need to figure out what we’re gonna do.”

“We?” Derek fixes him in his place with a look. Stiles knows that look just like he knows all of the other looks and tones of voice Derek uses on him to communicate sub-vocally. Words were never his thing and they still aren’t. But this look is a special one, he gets it whenever he tries to do something right after he’s been hurt.

He’s been getting it more often as of late, even when he’s _not_ injured. Derek presses him with _the look_ and then tries to do the very same thing Stiles had planned on doing himself – which he probably would’ve been perfectly capable of doing on his own.

“Yes, **we**. Lydia can only do so much on her own, magically speaking, so I have to help her, and you guys don’t know what this thing is either... so again, **we**. And before you comment on my health and wellbeing let me just say that one, me,” he points at himself, “magic. Two, pack.”

“Caveman speak, nice.”

Stiles smirks, “Learned from the best. Anyway, my point is that I’ll heal just fine. I don’t need you or anyone else to baby me.”

Derek puts the car in park abruptly, sending the seatbelt tightening over Stiles’ chest. “We’re not babying you and you know it.”

He crosses his arms at Derek and sends his very own look back. “Ha, you _so_ baby me. Last time I broke something none of you would let me get up.”

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Derek turns to him. “Last time. Hmm, maybe if you stopped doing reckless things –”

“Ohhh no. Do **not** pull that shit with me. I remember a time where you sacrificed yourself at least once a month.”

“Not the point,” Derek grinds out before pulling his keys from the ignition. His next words come neither easily nor quick. “You are a part of this pack, a very important part. When you get hurt we’re _vulnerable_. We’re just helping you.”

The spark lets out a deep breath and before he can think better of ruining the serious moment he raises an eyebrow and says, “Whoa. S’almost like you care.”

“You know I do,” Derek whispers, exasperated.

Stiles does, he just can’t override the response to needle Derek when he’s this tired and cranky. It’s been a long day for everyone. “Yeah.”

The two sit in silence for a moment until Stiles gets uncomfortable and makes a move to get out. As Stiles collects his limbs Derek walks ahead to the front door and waits until he crosses the threshold. Once they’re both inside Derek holds out a hand.

“What” Stiles isn’t sure what Derek wants but he can say with relative certainty that it’s not to hold his hand.

“Give me the crutches.” His hand inches closer, gearing up to rip them out from under Stiles’ arms.

“I kinda need them to walk right now.”

The alpha rolls his eyes. “Give me _one_.”

“Why?”

He tugs Stiles over by the collar of his shirt and takes a crutch before swinging the newly freed arm over his shoulders. The hand that doesn’t have the other crutch rests on Stiles’ hip but neither of them address it. Stiles thinks about it though as Derek guides him toward the stairs.

“Oh,” he hums as it registers. “That’s why. You know I could’ve gotten up these by myself right?” He probably couldn’t have gotten up them with the speed and precision at which they move now though.

Derek seems to think the same thing. “Only would’ve taken you until tomorrow.”

Stiles frowns at that, “Excuse me, I would’ve done just fine.”

“How many more bones would you have broken in the process?”

A bark of laughter escapes him. “None, thank you very much.”

One they reach his door he shrugs Derek off so he can unlock it. Upon searching his pants pockets he sighs, Scott took the keys to drive the jeep home. The front door is locked too – curse Scott for following directions so well.

He hands Derek his other crutch and shakes his hands to warm them up. When he’s ready he presses a finger against the door repeatedly as if there’s a compass rose in the order of: North, South, East, South, West, East, North.

Faintly etched in gold above the doorknob, a circle appears. Stiles pantomimes turning and opening the door and stands back as the tumbler clicks and gives way. When its finished he turns the actual doorknob.

Derek’s forehead creases. “You couldn’t leave a spare key?”

Stiles grabs his crutches and hobbles inside, turning on the lights as he goes. “I’ve learned that leaving around keys to your home that houses tens of different dried plants and other occult shit tends not to go over well with the nosy neighbors.”

The wolf nods, though the confusion doesn’t seem to dissipate.

While it was true that most of Beacon Hills’ inhabitants knew _something_ preternatural was going on in town, knew about magic existing, only handful knew that werewolves specifically were involved, and an ever smaller handful knew exactly what was going on (this was limited to the Sheriff’s department, the pack, and the Argents). However, none of this meant they actually understood it – hence the reason Stiles almost got sent to jail over _incense_.

After puttering around his apartment for a bit Stiles sits in his living room with a box of medicinal supplies. Derek hovers nearby in the general vicinity, unwilling to sit for whatever reason. He doesn’t speak until Stiles pulls a few vials out of his box, and somehow he manages to make it sound like whatever Stiles is doing is something wrong or to be feared. “What are you doing?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, playing it off as if he didn’t hear, instead he pulls more things from the box until he gets to an ankle brace that’s akin to some bionic attachment. He’d gotten it back in high school when he fractured his ankle – it allowed him to walk normally but restricted side to side motions.

“Stiles.” It’s louder now with Derek beside him.

He looks up. “Huh?”

“What are you doing?”

He sighs. “A little something so I don’t have to walk with _those_.” He refrains from doing something stupid with the crutches to his side and just points to them.

In the middle of toying with the wooden box in front of him, his fingers tapping against it rhythmically, Stiles freezes. His neck hairs stand on edge and his stomach rolls at the thought of having lost… “Derek.”

The wolf is already looking at him, having picked up on his frantic pulse. “What.”

“Where’s my staff?”

Derek places a hand over Stiles’ to stop it from tightening around the box any further. “It’s in the car. I grabbed it while you were out.”

The world loosens back up and Stiles can breathe again. “Okay. Okay, cool. Thanks. Can – can you go get it?”

“You need it right now?”

Stiles looks up from where he’d been focused on pre-wrap and a tiny vial and mumbles, “I’d feel more comfortable with it. Please.”

Derek’s face loosens in some bit of understanding, but his lips remain fixed in a tight line. He nods and leaves the room. While he’s gone Stiles releases his ankle and foot from the bandages and pre-wrap to take a look. He doesn’t particularly care for what he sees, a black and purple bruise like angry storm clouds in the vague shape of a hand, but his skin isn’t singed anymore so he doesn’t think he can complain.

He exhales for what seems like forever before plucking the tiny vial from its spot on the table, pulling its cork out of place shortly after. Leto appears beside him as he calls upon his spark and splits in two, and then each part of her takes a space at his side, glowing a soft blue. After looking at each of them for added strength, he tips the vial back and swallows. Its contents make his skull burn, not much unlike when you’ve eaten something too spicy. His skin seems to brighten from the inside out, almost sparkling, so he guesses its magic is worked.

The after taste and burn in his throat detract from the coolness of the sparkling skin though. “Eugh. Just like taking a shot.”

Derek opens the door briskly but halts one step in as his eyes land on Stiles. “You’re glowing.”

Stiles smiles placidly. “You’ve always had a knack for picking up key details.”

Dropping the staff in the umbrella bucket by the door, he amends his earlier statement. “ _Why_ are you glowing?” And then he closes the door.

“Because I’m radiant and you’re just now realizing my magnetic charms,” he replies deadpan.

He’s given a warning growl in response so he huffs and fills Derek in. “Fine. S’an elixir. Special one for when I need my energy back ASAP. It’s a bitch to make so I try not to use it often – only have one left – but I felt this situation warranted it.”

Derek narrows his eyes, wincing like it hurts to look directly at the spark. “How long are you going to glow exactly?”

“Oh does this bother you?” Stiles intones. “Now you know how I feel when you get all night vision-y and light up the house with your red eyes when I’m trying to sleep.” He sets the vial back in his box for later. “It’ll be two hours, tops, but you’re free to go home.”

“Thank you my liege,” Derek says expressionlessly.

Stiles rolls his eyes, he’d get the last word any other day, but he’s got some things to do before he goes to bed. He starts by rewrapping his ankle in the bright red pre-wrap he keeps and then puts his clunky brace on over it.

When he looks up Derek is closer, stiff postured. His face must be all the question Derek needs because he explains. “I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“As you’ve said. You afraid something might happen to me, Sourwolf?” Stiles gets up and tilts his foot up and down before applying pressure. It hurts about as much as any other sprained ankle so he puts a mental tally in the winning column.

The grimace is back in full force as Derek says, “I’m more afraid of what you might do to yourself.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “Derek, you don’t have to stay okay? I’m done for the night.” _Lie_ , Derek catches it too. “Okay, I’m done doing big things tonight. I’m exhausted. Also, Arty’s got my back.” He hooks a thumb backward, but the fox in question looks flippant at best. Apollo leaves the room all together, probably miffed at having been left out.

“That didn’t stop you from being attacked last time.”

This is obviously turning into a one-sided argument, that much Stiles can tell, and he isn’t on the winning side of it either. Sighing, he grabs the collar of his shirt, pulls it over his head, then balls it up and shoves it into his wooden box. He sets the box against his hip. “Fine, stay. Do what you want. I’m not going anywhere though.”

Derek doesn’t seem to care if Stiles _does_ go anywhere. He just wants to be able to keep watch, and he does, sitting on the couch while Stiles brings his things to his room.

The spark forgoes grabbing another shirt, unwilling to deal with the feeling of fabric against his irritated skin. He stopped being self conscious about his body a while ago so it’s not a big deal anymore. As he approaches the living room, having finished his business, he finds Derek looking irritated by something on the phone. It’s not exactly uncommon for Derek to be annoyed with something or someone, but, for all his troubles, Stiles feels the need to make him some tea. He won’t tell Derek it’s a healing tea he made himself, but that’s beside the point.

The second time he comes back Derek is staring out of one of the windows behind the TV. His hands are on his knees as if he’s about to rise from the couch for something. When Stiles speaks it seems to snap him out of whatever mind place he’d gone to.

“I made you tea. It’s chamomile.” He sets it down beside the wolf and cradles his own with both hands now that the other has been freed.

Derek looks down at his, almost reluctant, but he grabs it. His chest rumbles appreciatively as he takes a sip. “Thank you.”

Stiles avoids eyeing Derek too appreciatively by staring down into his mug. The yellow-gold liquid ripples as his fingers tap against the porcelain. “No problem. What are the others up to?”

“Scott and Isaac patrolled the area after you and I were attacked. They didn’t find anything. Erica and Boyd went to get Lydia at the shop, filled her in, and now everyone is at the house.”

The house being Derek’s newly remodeled one in the middle of the preserve. Stiles swallows his tea roughly at the thought. “Did Lydia set up any extra wards?”

Derek nods and downs the rest of his tea.

“Do you think they should be there without you?” His fingers click mercilessly at the cup now.

“Would you come with me if I left?”

Stiles sighs and looks down. “That’s not fair. I heal better in familiar surroundings – where I use my magic most.” He mutters the last part, “My soul is practically tied to this place.”

He can hear the click of Derek’s jaw, and sees him stand out of the corner of his eye. “Then I’m staying here for the night until we figure out a plan” The wolf leaves the room without another word and puts his cup in the sink.


	5. Verisimilitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For future reference:
> 
> Long strings of italics = Stiles' thoughts
> 
> Any bolded italicized sentences (that are right after non-bolded italicized sentences) are usually Stiles' counter thoughts where he's arguing with himself.

Bed, table, clock. Bed, table, clock. Bed. Table. Clock. He blinks, coming to. The room is dark and lightning flashes outside, illuminating the walls for barely a moment. Why is the bed made? Wasn’t he sleeping in it?

Hm, maybe he hasn’t gotten in yet.

The clock at his bedside blinks steadily reading  _12:00 a.m._   _Must’ve reset in the storm._ Stiles checks his phone,  _2:03 a.m.,_  and sets the clock. He probably fell asleep on the couch.

Outside, clouds roll closer and closer and lightning strikes something nearby. Car alarms sound and the windows rattle with the force of the thunder rumbling overhead. Stiles sighs and makes his way to the living room. He knows he has a habit of leaving the windows open every now and again, so it’s good to check.

_It feels drafty. I’m pretty sure I left one open._

When he gets to the living room he finds that he did leave one open. The sheer curtains whip wildly about the room, lighting up as the sky does. He pushes down on the window, but it won’t budge. Letting out a humph, he checks the lock to see if it's caught. It’s not.

 _So why won’t it close?_ He looks down at his hands and scowls. _Stupid sleepy arms, can’t even close a window._

He shakes his limbs in an attempt to get the blood flowing. Behind him a floorboard creaks and he spins quickly to address the cause. It’s just Derek, but his heart races nonetheless.

“Hey. What’re you doing up?” The wolf doesn’t answer so Stiles turns back toward the window. _He’s probably waking up too – oh – I probably woke him up…_

He jiggles the window and puts a little bit more into it; this time it closes. He smiles in triumph and turns back to Derek. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Just left this open I guess.”

The sky lights up again, bathing the room and the wolf in a cool white-purple glow. Stiles stops as the light reflects off of yellow eyes. _Yellow_ eyes.

His blood runs cold. “D-Derek?”

Claws, eyes, teeth. Claws, eyes, teeth. Claws. Eyes. Teeth. Rows upon rows. It’s like they extend all the way back into the thing’s throat. Stiles tries to ground himself, he really doesn’t mean to yell, but he can’t get a handle on his nerves and it shows. “Derek. If you’re here now would be a good time to get up!”

As he speaks the other Derek slinks to the side, unhurried, revealing a dark mass on the floor where he’d been standing. The sky crackles and bursts again, lighting up the downturned body with a triskele tattoo on its back that’s surrounded by a pool of red. A sickened gasp escapes Stiles but as he moves toward the body the creature finds him and pins him to a wall.

“ _Stiles_.” The t is too rough and the s’s are hissed. This close to the monster it feels like Stiles is standing right underneath a fire alarm because the voice makes his ears ring.

In a fit of desperation, he grabs the wrist of the hand wrapped around his throat and chants an expulsion spell in his head. An eerie green light grows within the thing’s abdomen and it squeezes Stiles’ throat even harder. There’s a pop and fizzle right about the time his vision starts to ebb, and the beast starts to screech.

The thunder outside is near deafening now and lightning strikes the fire escape just outside Stiles’ apartment. All the windows in the living room burst sending glass scattering in every direction. Other Derek tears himself away from Stiles as his chest begins to implode; he’s halfway through his retreat when his torso balloons and then shatters, much like the windows.

Stiles drops to his knees, clutching at his throat and gasping for air. When he can almost breathe normally he crawls to Derek. It takes him a moment, but he flips the motionless man over and whines, “Derek, Derek please.”

There’s so much blood. Too much. Derek’s neck has almost been separated from the rest of his body and Stiles can see right down to the bone. Rather then puke like he wants to he covers the wound, fruitless as the attempt to staunch the bleeding is. The blood is still hot and makes everything slippery. And, even knowing the attempt could easily be futile, Stiles tries to knit the skin back together with his magic.

_It will only work if he’s alive and you know it_

“Shut up. Shut up,” he mutters to himself.

_He’s **dead** , Stiles._

“SHUT UP!”

He leans over Derek’s body and envelopes the wolf in his arms. “Derek please come back. We need you here. The pack can’t do this without you.”

He whimpers into the wolf’s shoulder and grips him as tightly as he can, but the blood on his hands makes it hard.

“Derek _come on_. I know I give you a lot of shit, and that’s childish – but, but you’re the best. You’re the best alright? I should’ve said it before this, I know that, but I’m saying it now and I need you to hear it _so come **back**_.”

The man doesn’t miraculously start moving like Stiles would’ve hoped. He doesn’t come springing back to life. He remains a fixed point in Stiles arms, lifeless. Stiles wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, but they’re quick to reform, clouding his vision.

Stiles sets Derek back down and sobs into his chest, whispering at last, “Please. I need you.”

“Stiles?”

“Stiles?”

“Stiles?”

“Stiles?”

“Stiles?”

“Stiles?”

“Stiles?”

It reverberates off the walls, pummeling Stiles’ ears. When he looks up he sees one, two, three – seven wolves standing in his apartment, circling in. The cries for his attention grow louder and louder until finally all he can do is scream to drown it out.

~

“Stiles!”

He’s jolted from his nightmare by strong hands. When he looks around he sees his bed, the table, his clock, and red eyes. _Red_ eyes. He lets out a cry of relief and falls into Derek’s chest. The alpha slowly wraps his arms around Stiles and squeezes him in return.

“Is it really you?” He wonders quietly before looking up into, now, blue-green eyes. The scowl is familiar as is the stubble. Derek lets his eyes bleed red again for a moment and Stiles sighs. It’s the right one.

He shoves Derek’s arms away only to wrap his around the alpha’s neck, reeling him in for a tight embrace. A steady stream of tears still falls from Stiles’ face as he hiccups and struggles to reign in the air around him. His throat feels raw and ridiculously sore too, no doubt bruised from what was one hell of a nightmare. Through all of this Derek doesn’t move an inch except to encircle Stiles in his own arms again, which the spark is silently grateful for. He still can’t shake the overwhelming feeling of loss.

“Th-thought we lost you.” He manages to get out after a while.

Derek runs a hand up and down his back to placate him, to soothe the vibrations wracking his body, and somehow the simple gesture helps. But when Derek speaks his voice is just as shaky and uncertain as Stiles’, “You kept calling my name in your sleep. Screaming.”

“You – you were dead,” Stiles hiccoughs as he curls his fingers into Derek’s shirt. “Th – so much blood. There was so much blood.”

“I’m right here,” Derek assures him quietly as he rocks Stiles side to side. He emphasizes his point by squeezing Stiles a little tighter.

Stiles pulls back though, unable to resist the urge to put his fingers on Derek’s neck. Needing to confirm for himself that this was real, that Derek was alright. The wolf lets him, even tilts his head back to expose the area. He doesn’t really catch the importance of the gesture in that moment, too focused on swiping his thumb across the expanse of unbroken skin slowly.

After he’s mapped out every inch of skin he lets out a shaky breath and pulls his hands away. “M’sorry for waking you.”

The wolf huffs and slowly extricates himself from Stiles’ space. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Stiles looks down at his feet, now dangling just above the floor, and whispers to himself, “It was so real.”

A small grumble escapes Derek as he kneels before Stiles to look up at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His heart races at the thought so he shakes his head. “Give me a minute.”

Derek nods and stands, walking over to the door he speaks, “Close your eyes.”

Stiles obeys and light floods the room, hitting his eyelids. He slowly peels them open and looks around. His eyes catch on Leto. She sits straight-backed at the edge of his room, a watchful set of eyes. Every bit of her silver fur sits in place except for a strip along the back of her neck. Stiles wonders if Derek heard his heart stop too.

Derek certainly looks as tense as Leto, all coiled muscle and frustration. “Your neck is bruised.”

Instinct has him covering it, but he lets the hand slip away when a dull throb pulses through the skin there at the touch. “Yeah – it uh, choked me.”

Derek’s eyes are stained a permanent red for the moment and his next words seem more threatening than questioning. “What did?”

Stiles frowns as the images flash back to him in bits and pieces. Even momentarily they’re horrifying and they send his heart scrabbling for purchase against his ribcage. The room narrows into a point and breathing becomes the world’s hardest task. Everything sounds like it’s coming to him through a tin can.

Derek wills him to look up with a carefully placed hand, but the worry and fear written across his features does nothing to calm Stiles. He doesn’t want Derek to be scared too, not even on his behalf.

“C’mon Stiles,” he urges as he picks up Stiles’ hand to hold it against his chest. His breathing is slow and controlled, just like it almost always is. Leave it to Derek to be the steady force in Stiles’ life – the werewolf with a penchant for martyrdom and self-sacrifice.

His vision comes back into focus slowly, but his breathing is still ragged. Derek doesn’t move. He keeps his hand on Stiles’ chest and Stiles’ on his own and breathes. Four in. Seven out. Until Stiles’ heart stops racing and his breathing levels.

It’s almost sad that he’s become so accustomed to Stiles’ “quirks” that he’s perfected a method for calming the spark down. Stiles usually relies on Scott or his dad for things like this – sometimes even waits it out on his own if he can manage without blacking out, but one of the few times he tried that Derek found him. Derek had no clue what to do at all, hadn’t even known Stiles had panic attacks, but he came up with something and it worked. He wasn’t forceful nor was he angry, he was steady. An anchoring force.

The Derek Stiles knew from high school never would’ve been able to pull that off, but none of them are in high school anymore, and they haven’t been for a while. They’re all grown up.

So far Stiles doesn’t like adulthood.

“We can talk later,” Derek says as he removes his hand. He pulls a drawer out from beneath the bed and lifts an eyebrow. “Which box?”

Stiles isn’t past his dream yet and his mind doesn’t even register the question. He gives himself a pep talk as he stares past Derek at the wall. He can do this, he can say it now. Even if he can’t he secretly hopes that saying it will get it out of his mind so he doesn’t have to think about it anymore, maybe make it easier to forget. So he forces himself to say it. “It was you… The thing was you.”

He takes a deep breath. “At least I thought it was you for a second. Then everything kind of clicked, and it moved and you were on the floor, dead.”

Derek’s hand clenches around the drawer’s edge hard enough to splinter it.

“I did something,” Stiles continues with his broken voice, “and the thing exploded, but he had already choked me half to death. I tried helping you. I tr- I tried. I just – your neck.” He sighs and curls his body and hands inward to stave off the shaking. His heartbeat is erratic once more. “There was so much blood, Derek. I couldn’t save you.” His eyes begin to water again. “And then there were seven wolves circling me, saying my name over and over and over until –”

“Stop,” Derek commands gruffly from below, the hand he places on Stiles’ knee jars him from his thoughts. When he looks back down at Derek every emotion is laid bare – which is how he knows Derek must be tired. He looks so sad, so _worried_.

But Derek is never worried for himself. He’s always worried about the pack. “It’s okay now. You’re awake and I’m alive.”

Stiles places his hand over Derek’s and squeezes, offering up a wan smile. “My measure of fine, huh?”

The wolf nods and pulls his hands away. “Which box?”

“I can get it. Will you – can you do me a favor?”

His reply is almost instant. “Anything.”

“Can you, uh, check and see if the windows in the living room are closed?”

It’s obviously a confusing request judging by the look on Derek’s face, but the wolf doesn’t question it and goes, but not before Stiles grabs him, “Can you get my staff too?”

Derek nods his assurance.

~

“Are you going to be okay if I go back in the other room?” Derek asks from his place on the end of Stiles’ bed. He’d been sitting there facing the door, looking ready for a fight that would never come, while Stiles patched himself up for the umpteenth time that day. He’d even stayed as Stiles read through a bestiary. It’s been almost two hours since he’s woken up screaming.

He looks up from the tome and down to his staff where it’s now hidden beneath the pillow to his side. He tries not to feel so sour about the prospect of being left alone and works his way around to telling a half truth. “I should be fine.”

Derek never lets those slide though. “Should?”

“It’s okay. I’m good now,” he tries as he sets the book down on the table beside his bed.

Derek turns and brings one of his legs up onto the bed to rest his arm on it. “That’s steadily becoming less and less true.”

Stiles frowns. “Really. You don’t have to sleep here if you don’t want to.” _Wrong word choice_ , he scolds as soon as the words leave his tongue.

“It’s not about me.”

Heart stuttering, Stiles clears his throat. He doesn’t think there’s ever been a time his sheets have been so interesting. Picking at a particular spot, he answers, “I don’t feel comfortable enough to go back to sleep right now, but that shouldn’t stop you from getting some rest.”

Derek sighs, and as soon as he does Stiles knows none of the answers he’s offering are the ones Derek wants to hear. But he’s not about to make this decision for Derek, not when he needs to know if the wolf would choose it on his own.

“You need to sleep, you’re hurt.”

Stiles is a lot of things right now. He’s tired, emotionally drained, bruised and scratched, but most of all he’s afraid. It’s not every day that happens, and he’s loathe to admit it, but he’s terrified. He’s worried that when he closes his eyes another person he loves will die right in front of him. For once, sleep doesn’t sound that great, no matter how tired and hurt he is.

A hand grips his shoulder. “Hey.”

Stiles schools his heart into playing a more suitable beat and looks up, “What?”

“Lay down.”

“Derek I don’t –”

The wolf pushes his legs up the bed to gather the covers and glares, “Lay. Down.”

He gives in and flops down, but not before snatching the covers childishly in the process. Derek scowls at him, but goes to turn off the lights and then moves around to the empty side to get in. “Back to back or front to back?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows and looks over his shoulder. “Is that your way of asking if we should spoon?”

Derek huffs and turns away, taking more than half of the blankets with him, exposing Stiles’ legs in the process.

“Hey, okay! _Okay_. Just – cover my back,” Stiles squawks, taking his blankets back.

It’s not like this is their first time spooning. There have been _countless_ puppy piles at the Hale, McCall, and Stilinski households. But this is different, this is just them. The alpha shifts closer and Stiles turns around so Derek can curve behind him.

“Where do you want my arms?”

He looks back again only to find a very serious look on Derek’s face. Chuckling to himself he grabs one of Derek’s arms and pulls it around his chest. _Who knew cuddling was such a serious matter_.

While Derek is a steady block of warmth behind him, Stiles can still sense how tense Derek is, so he breathes in nice and slow and says, “It’s okay you know.”

Derek lets out a particularly deep breath of his own. “What is?”

“That you’re in my bed. It’s okay. You don’t have to be so tense.”

There’s a momentary pause while Derek seems to think this over. “We usually stay in your guest room.”

Stiles hums his understanding. “Yeah. I don’t want _every_ wolf thinking my bed is fair game.”

The constant stream of breath at the back of his neck stops for a second then rushes out in what feels like a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He can feel Derek’s smirk though.

Stiles swats his arm. “Tell me.”

“Go to bed Stiles.”

“ _Derek_.”

“Stiles.”

He turns back and the wolf raises his eyebrows in an effort to cow him. Stiles furrows his own brow and sticks out his tongue before assuming his previous position. “Whatever.”

Derek exhales behind him, chest rumbling faintly, and tugs Stiles closer. The spark melts into the warm press at his back and his thoughts die down into a pleasant hum of _safe now._ It still takes Stiles a while to get comfortable enough to fall back asleep, but just as he slips he feels Derek bury his face in his neck. He squeezes Derek’s arms a little closer and smiles.

No more nightmares plague him that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you're confused about anything!


	6. When death comes ringing

A phone rings incessantly on the nightstand beside Stiles. He grumbles angrily in his sleep and shifts his head beneath his pillow. Something shoves at him from behind and then all of the light from the new day is suddenly spilling onto his face.

“For fucks sake. _Noooo_.” He turns away from the light and pulls the sheets up over his face.

“Get up,” a gruff voice orders while tearing the sheets from his body. “We need to go out to the preserve.”

Stiles rubs his eyes sleepily before opening them, all he can make out is a silhouette against the sunrise. “Huh?”

What he assumes is Derek heaves a put upon sigh. “Dead body in the preserve. Erica and Boyd found it on their rounds an hour ago. Your father is out there now.”

He shoots up in his bed. “ _What_?”

“I’m not saying it a third time.”

The spark waves his hands. “No, no, I got the dead person part in the preserve part. What I’m what-ing about is the fact that Erica and Boyd were on ‘rounds’. Rounds with an S. That implies that there was more than one. Why were they, and others out and about in the woods with a deadly predator lurking?”

Derek stares down at him amusedly. “I asked myself that same question about you a few years ago.”

Stiles throws a pillow at him, but Derek catches it with ease. “I’m being serious for once. They shouldn’t have been out there alone.”

“Again, I had these same thoughts. Some of them _yesterday_.” A rather pointed look is directed his way. “Now get up.”

Always one to be contrary, Stiles thuds back down onto the mattress. It’s practically calling out to him anyway. Derek tosses the pillow Stiles had thrown to him and lands it on the downed spark’s face.

“Get up or I’m dragging you and the blankets into the other room.”

Stiles pouts and pulls the pillow from his face. “That seems unnecessary. You could easily carry me.”

The wolf rolls his eyes and leaves the room. “I’m leaving without you.”

“Ugh, give me ten minutes to get some different clothes on.”

“Five, and your time starts now.”

That’s totally unfair coming from him because he’s already dressed in something new – something that was no doubt brought to him with his car last night when they were at Deaton’s.

Stiles frowns at the still warm sheets and pangs of regret wash over him at the mere thought of leaving the bed in favor of the woods where that _thing_ probably is. “You’re awful,” he tells Derek who hears him all the way in the other room.

“Four minutes.”

He rolls his eyes and shuts his door. It only takes him a few minutes to strip down and grab some jeans and a shirt. He’s just putting the tee on when Derek barges in and says, “One minute.”

Stiles jolts and hits his elbow on the bureau. “First of all, knock. For all you know I could’ve been naked. Second,” he huffs as he pulls his shirt down, “I just need shoes. Quit it with the count down, you’re starting to sound like a mother hen.”

Brushing past the majority of what Stiles said, Derek replies, “I knew you were dressed.”

He stops midway through pulling on a sock, leaned up against his dresser. “You have no way of knowing that.”

“Heard your zipper.”

“What if I was unzipping – you know what? Not important.” He finishes with his socks and leaves the room to grab his boots. “Knock. Like we taught you. Knocking is good.”

Derek knocks one of the boots out of his hand. “There.” He looks so proud of his little joke too.

“You’re awful,” Stiles grouses as he picks up the boot.

“So you’ve said.” The alpha waits by the door with crossed arms.

Stiles dusts his hands off and goes to grab his staff from his room. As he returns to grab his keys and head out the door he passes Derek and replies, “Well I’m reiterating the fact.” He thwacks the wolf in the shoulder to urge him out the door ahead of him so he can lock up.

“Go ahead without me, I need coffee before I can deal with this.”

Derek’s demeanor sours. “You don’t know where the body is.”

“I think I can manage. I happen to have a knack for finding things like that – even when I don’t want to.”

The other just turns away, shaking his head, and starts down the stairs. “Try not to take forever. I’ll be waiting.

Stiles sighs, “You always are,” and turns his key in the door. The lock clicks with solid finality.

~

“Scott. Don’t _ever_ push my seat up that far again.” Stiles hops out of the jeep a little groggy and a lot cranky. He downed his coffee mere minutes after buying it, but it didn’t do a thing for his weariness.

“You shouldn’t sit so far back,” Scott calls from beside Isaac and the Sheriff, his arms crossed.

“He’s right,” his dad chips in, crouched over the dead body. “I don’t know how you reach the steering wheel.”

Stiles bites at his bottom lip as he takes in the scenery before he releases it to fire back, “It’s not about the steering wheel, it’s about my legs.”

Derek moves from where he’d apparently been somewhere behind Stiles, and over to Erica and Boyd where Deputy Parrish was taking their statements. He nods at Scott as he passes and then Isaac, clapping the latter on his shoulder.

The spark turns his attention back to his father when he can’t catch anything the two betas are saying. “Anyway – should all of us be here fucking up the scene?”

“Language,” his dad scolds before rising to look at him.

His face is grim, but his eyes hold the same fatherly expression they assume whenever it’s time for a lecture. Stern, but still forgiving. “No, you shouldn’t be here. _But_ , I think it’s safe to say that we’re not looking for something with DNA we’d ever have on file.” His eyes fall back to the body and Stiles’ follow.

It isn’t pretty. Obviously death never is, but this is something Stiles would term “genuinely off”. The skin looks like it’s been desiccated, a leathery black in complexion that’s tightly wrapped around its inner framework. The person, whoever they might’ve been, has their hands curled into fists and their mouth is wide open. The strangest thing though, Stiles notes as he draws closer – pulled by some unseen force, aside from the dried up skin, is that their teeth are curled into points. Not all of them either. Some are more pointed than others, like the process had only just begun for them.

Besides the overall death, or rather murder, something eerie and old jabs at Stiles’ mind. It’s telling him to run.

He shivers as he continues to catalogue the damage done. The chest of the person has a hole punched into it, but the heart still lays at the bottom, sort of. Only half of it is there.

 _Why do they always go for the heart?_ He wonders aimlessly, bitterly. _It’s just a glorified muscle that pumps blood. Shouldn’t they go for the brain? **Yeah, like that demon did last winter?**_

He shudders at the thought and looks back up, but he only finds Scott. His dad and Isaac are off by Derek now conversing.

“You okay?” Scott’s signature puppy dog frown distorts his features. Stiles hates that frown, it does things to his insides. Right now it just makes the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach worse.

He hesitates but says, “Yeah. I mean, as good as I can be hanging over a dead body. Why?”

Scott moves closer, voice almost a whisper. “You were staring at the body for a while.”

Stiles doesn’t quite understand why that warranted a whisper – though Scott does have a tendency to exaggerate at the wrong times. “Uh, yeah? I was looking for answers.”

Scott’s frown deepens, pulling his eyebrows down with it. “No, dude. You were staring for a _while_. Like fifteen minutes actually.”

He leans back and loses balance, but quickly catches himself with a hand. It didn’t even click that he was so close to the body, at some point he had crouched down right above it – lost in thought.

“Oh,” is all he manages. It only felt like three minutes to him, if that.

“Stiles are you sure you’re okay?” His best friend holds out a hand and Stiles grabs it to hoist himself up.

“Yeah, I’m – I don’t know actually. I keep getting these weird vibes.” He shrugs, partly because he’s at a loss but mostly in an attempt to shake the feeling off.

Scott nods. “Well I know what you mean for once. The forest doesn’t feel right.”

Stiles rests one arm on his staff and places his free hand on Scott’s forearm. “I kind of know why, but there’s something else I’m missing. Some part. I don’t know. Something’s off.”

Scott sighs and rests his hand over the spark’s. “You were pretty gone a minute ago. Your dad was trying to get your attention. I just told him you weren’t responding because you were reading the person’s aura.”

Lips pressed in a thin line, Stiles listens to the background conversation of the pack and catches bits and pieces. He turns away from the body and faces Scott after a minute. “Mm, this person is long gone. If their aura is anywhere it’s not close enough for me to tell. Did I say anything?”

“Huh?”

“When I was – y’know – off in my head. Did I say anything?” Stiles gestures back at the body.

“Not really. Just some of the obvious. Leathery body, weird teeth. You said something about a heart.” Scott pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds them palm up.

Stiles nods and pats his shoulder. “Thanks. I’m gonna go talk to my dad I guess.”

“Okay.” Scott turns back toward the corpse and the tree line, listening.

“Hey dad. What’ve you got for me?”

The Sheriff turns, all worried lines and frustration. “I think I should be asking you that. Derek said something about you being attacked?”

He turns to Derek with narrowed accusatory eyes. Pissed could easily be a word to describe Stiles at the moment. “I told you I like being able to tell him myself,” he hisses, jabbing his staff into the ground forcefully. Sparks crackle at the top.

Derek closes his eyes, probably keeping them from turning red in anger. “He asked me a question, I answered it.”

“Not that hard to say, ‘ask him’.” Stiles points to his own chest and then swivels back to his dad, ignoring Derek’s attempt to speak by placing an open hand in his direction. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you – I wasn’t hiding anything. It’s been a long few days for me.”

His dad raises an eyebrow so he keeps going. “It started with a dream – poetic I know. This thing attacked me in it. I didn’t think it was a big deal –”

“Didn’t think it was a big deal,” his dad huffs in disbelief. “You were attacked and didn’t think it was a big deal.

A mutter comes from beside him, “That’s what I said.”

Stiles’ eyes widen as he’s faced with two frowns and the aggravation kicks in. “Will you two _stop_.” He lets out a deep breath. “You didn’t even let me **finish**. I didn’t think it was a big deal _at first_. And this isn’t high school anymore – I’m not some teenager.”

“You act like one,” Derek interjects.

He pointedly ignores the comment, at least vocally – he does flip Derek off. “I’m twenty-four. This isn’t my first goddamn supernatural rodeo. I handled the situation the way I saw fit _at the time_. I didn’t think it had any significance in the waking realm. I thought it was all up here again,” he finishes sighing, a quick point to his head.

His dad’s face softens a bit. “Okay.”

Stiles lets out a puff of breath and continues, “Then the pack was attacked by what I’m assuming did _that_.” He waves a hand back at the body. “I patched them up and the following afternoon – yesterday – I went out for clues and got attacked for real.”

Confusion and irritation color the Sheriff’s face again. “You went out alone?”

 _Jesus H. Christ it’s like I’m having this whole conversation over again – oh wait,_ I am _._

Derek shoots him _the look_ and Erica and Boyd look up from where they’d been discussing something in private. Stiles slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, taking his features with it.

“Derek was out there too, and I was looking for clues! Not. Trouble.”

“And yet it always finds you, son,” his dad sighs. “Stiles we talked about this.”

Stiles can hear the disappointment in his dad’s voice. He groans and looks up at the sky, pleading for a way out of the day and this situation. He looks back down and straightens his stance. “I am not weak. And you two,” he points his staffed hand at his father and the free one at Derek, “need to stop treating me like I am.”

Derek’s chest rumbles and his father’s eyes probably would’ve been red had he been a werewolf. Derek is the one who speaks though, or tries. “I _told_ you we don’t think you’re weak. We –”

“Uh uh,” he holds up a hand. “M’not talking to you right now – you’ve reached strike three for the day.”

The alpha’s face grows cold and distant. He leaves the conversation without another word, standing beside Isaac and Scott instead.

The Sheriff tries next, voice soft but commanding, and places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “We just want you to be _safe_.”

His heart clenches. “Dad, I know you do. _I know_. But you can’t do that by surrounding me with bubble wrap or locking me indoors.”

“Trust me, if I thought that would work I would’ve tried by now.” He and his father let out small twin laughs. “I’m just worried that one day you’re going to do something that can’t be undone.”

The air is strained with the heaviness of concern on all ends as Stiles confesses, “I think I’ve already passed that point.”

His dad bows his head and lets out a shaky breath. “Maybe.” He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder and lets his hand fall. “Take someone with you next time. We have faith in your ability to handle almost any situation, but take someone anyway.”

Stiles wobbles the staff back and forth under his hands and bites at the inside of his mouth. “I will.”

His dad claps him on the shoulder one more time before rounding up his deputies. Stiles turns back to Scott and Isaac; the two are huddled close together hand in hand, speaking. Erica and Boyd are nowhere to be found at the scene, probably headed back to the house before work. Stiles knows Lydia is at the shop so she’s not here either, but Derek. Derek is staring at him – hard.

He seems to take the connection of sight as approval to speak again because he’s in Stiles’ space in a flash. The air comes out of his nostrils in a sharp exhale and Stiles almost gets sympathy pains looking at how tight his jaw is clenched. His words come out sounding more like a snarl than anything, “No one ever said you were weak. We tell you to take someone because you’re our emissary.”

Stiles takes a step back and sneers, “You have Deaton and Lydia if anything ever goes wrong. I’m not your emissary yet.”

He knows it’s a low blow, which had kind of been his intention. Derek rubs him the wrong way sometimes, treats him like a child. But when Derek backs away like Stiles _actually_ hit him, Stiles regrets it.

Derek sighs and looks toward where his house is hidden behind the trees. His words are spoken softly, almost to himself. “You don’t get it.”

“What now?” he sighs.

The alpha looks back at him, body taught and ready to spring, but nothing pops or rushes out. He doesn’t answer Stiles’ question either. “They’re taking the body to Deaton’s. Tell me what you find.” He melts into the woods before the spark can say another word.


	7. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Morrígan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Morr%C3%ADgan) is a deity from Irish mythology. She's primarily a battle goddess but she reigns over other things, like banshee. So, I put her in here as a character that Stiles and Derek speak with. She's mentioned in this chapter, as well as the next, but you won't actually see or hear from her until chapter nine!
> 
> She's sometimes referred to as they and a multiple being so I switch back and forth pretty freely but never in the same string of sentences.

Bodies start turning up in town every few days. Eight days, to be exact. Were the deaths not so characteristically unique one might’ve been inclined to think they were completely unrelated given the places they were turning up. But Stiles knew better.

The first is the body in the woods, but the second person is found inside their home all alone, save the few cats that treated the body like jerky. _Circle of life_ , Stiles thinks as he holds back the bile rising up his throat. The third is found in a gazebo at the town park with their arms stretched heavenward, grasping for goodness knows what. Stiles knows what _he’s_ trying to keep a hold of, and it’s his lunch. He doesn’t have much luck. The fourth person is found in a dumpster behind a bar. Rats regarded the body as fair game, so there isn’t much to see when the department and pack get there.

While vastly different in location, at every scene the souls and all accompanying auras are long gone, and at every scene Stiles is greeted with mouths stretched wide – teeth curled down into misshapen points. Luckily, and the term is used loosely here, dental records aren’t needed to identify any of the victims. Beacon Hills happens to be small enough for most people to notice exactly who’s missing.

As for the nightmares, they’re sporadic and without pattern now. Stiles has given up trying to place meaning in that void. Sometimes he can go a few days without one, almost get to the point where he can relax at the thought of sleep and slip happily into it to escape the day. Anytime he does that though the nightmares seem to come rushing back full force, a not so subtle reminder for him to stay on his toes.

The thing returns those nights, all rows of teeth and bubbling black tar flesh, and shifts into Stiles. On bad nights Derek or Scott die. On one rare occasion, Lydia. However, on milder nights only Stiles dies, or gets knocked unconscious. He can’t tell. But he stops calling to check and see if his friends are alive. What happens in his dreams seems to happen only to him.

What befuddles Stiles most of all, as he sits up on sleepless nights, is the lack of a motive. For both the dreams and deaths. Why does he keep having the dreams? Nothing seems to be coming of the nightly haunting, except for the fact that he’s steadily become weaker. But, no matter how weak Stiles becomes the beast always seems to flee when they’re matched up in a brawl. Granted there have only been two more of those since the original fight in the woods – but Stiles still can’t wrap his head around it.

Another point that seems to escape him is the creature’s origin. No matter how hard he tries or how long he looks, he can’t seem to find a way to identify the thing. What’s worse is that it’s the best place for Stiles to start given all the miscellaneous pieces he’s been presented with.

Not making it past point one eats at him. He hates feeling so hopeless and he hates that tomorrow is day eight. Another person will probably end up dead, and he’s powerless to stop it.

He wishes he didn’t feel so useless.

~

Probably denotes a chance, relative certainty. It’s a little bit more than that today because this week’s body is found hanging from tree branches. Outside _Stiles’_ apartment.

He wakes up that morning to pins and needles dancing across his body, an eerie concert of frayed nerves. He frantically looks around his room for the cause, but nothing is there, at least nothing he can see. Apollo and Artemis sit at the edges of his bed like gargoyles, hackles raised.

When Stiles can’t identify the reason his equilibrium is so upset, he decides to wash it off, literally. But the feeling doesn’t leave him after his shower, it doesn’t leave after he makes his coffee, and when he gets dressed the pull and scratch across his skin is heightened if anything.

Outside is no better and when he follows the line of upset, against his better judgment, he quickly sees why. The spark has his hands up and fire called upon in an instant once he sees the body. He has half the mind to rouse the clouds from their slumber while he’s at it, but they pile in slowly of their own accord.

“Come out you piece of shit,” Stiles hisses, in no direction in particular. He knows the thing isn’t here, his skin would vibrate off his body at this point if it were, but that doesn’t stop him from going on the defensive for a bit.

Body number five is a chilling calling card.

After a few minutes he drops his hands, defeated, and releases his hold on fire. He calls his father first. “Dad. Yeah, it’s me. There’s another one. My place this time.”

The line goes quiet for a few seconds until, “ _Are you hurt?_ ”

“No, dad, I’m fine. Just – get someone out here please. I need to call the pack.”

He calls Scott next, and by extension Isaac. The latter is unavailable, but Scott swears up and down he’ll be there as soon as possible – it’s not like Deaton would stop him from leaving – but Stiles tells him not to bother because he knows he’ll end up there sooner or later with the body. Lydia is next. She’s been nose deep in bestiaries since body one so she’ll probably want to hear about this.

“Has anything changed?” She huffs over the line without preamble, before Stiles can speak. Being a banshee has its perks. He doesn’t know if Lydia actually sees it that way though.

“No, except for the fact that this person is hanging from a tree right in front of my apartment complex.” He chews at his bottom lip for a moment before turning a glance over his shoulder. He gets grossed out and turns back around.

“How’d you manage to spot it?”

“Aside from the fact that the trees are bare? Something felt wrong this morning so I followed the feeling.”

Lydia lets out a dry laugh. “Most people turn _away_ from things like that.”

“I know,” he snaps.

The banshee goes silent on the line. Stiles rolls a pebble under his foot and turns back toward the body. This is the only one whose hands aren’t stretched out. Instead one hangs limp, silver bracelet glittering in the faint daylight.

Eventually Stiles snaps out of it. “Sorry. This is stressing me out. I can’t figure out what the hell is doing this.”

He can hear the clack of her fingernails against something as his father pulls up, lights a blur in the dim grey haze that sets in. “I think I might be getting somewhere, if I’m not already there. Come by when you’re finished.”

“See you later.”

“Bye.”

~

His dad asks him the usual before letting him go. Each scene, while different in location, was like the bodies, almost always the same. Desiccated body, no evidence of foul play in the area itself, no soul, and no indication as to what could’ve done it. Stiles knows though. The thing makes sure he knows. Some nights, after the deaths, he’ll have a dream in those very same locations, fighting until he dies too.

He zips up the hoodie he’s wearing and crosses his arms over his chest, but he isn’t shivering because of the cool air.

~

Lydia leaves him a message saying she’ll meet him at Deaton’s when she’s finished with her work. Stiles almost hitches a ride with the body, but decides last minute that he’d like to keep his distance for once. When he arrives he parks beside Lydia and notes Scott’s bike as well as Derek’s Toyota.

Once he gets into the back room all eyes are on him. Derek wastes no time and bluntly states, “You’re staying at my house tonight.” He leaves no room for argument, as usual. Not that it ever stops Stiles.

“Because that’s _so_ much safer than my house.” He rolls his eyes. “It really doesn’t matter where I stay, m’gonna have nightmares either way.”

Deaton looks up from his work, face pensive as per usual, his tone mildly patronizing. “Have you been burning anise at night?”

“Yes, and I even have some tied in a knot above my headboard. Since that didn’t work I tried milk and cookies before bed, but here we are.” Two can play the game of condescension if need be.

“Stiles.” Lydia sits primly at Deaton’s side, her tone mock disapproval.

He sighs all of his remaining irritation away and smiles at her. It’s almost sincere. “Lydia.”

“You should stay with Derek for the night.”

The smile is replaced with a terse frown. Derek had only gotten more irritable in the past month. Granted it was warranted, and still is, but the fact doesn’t stop Stiles from wanting to be in any room _but_ the one Derek’s in. He misses the Derek that comes out when Beacon Hills is calm. The one that actually smiles and means it, not the one that smiles at the end of a biting comment or because he thinks you’re an idiot.

Rubbing a hand over his face he groans, “Why?”

The banshee stands and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear neatly. “Because if I’m right about what this thing is, and I almost always am, you’re going to need to be with someone strong.”

Stiles huffs, looks at Derek, and then back to Lydia. “Tell me what you found.”

Derek leaves the room before she starts. Probably had the talk already, or Stiles pissed him off. After him, Deaton leaves for the medical examination room next door where the latest body is now sitting on a slab. It leaves the two of them alone.

Lydia urges him forward and lays her findings out on the table then explains while she thumbs through a book, “You didn’t go back far enough.”

“Lydia I went back at least five thousand years.”

She smiles wryly, “You should’ve started even farther and then worked your way up – would’ve been easier.”

He scratches the back of his neck and gives in. “How far?”

“Dawn of man,” she answers nonchalant and then hums appreciatively when she finds her page.

“Wh – no wonder I didn’t find it. I didn’t exactly think to look further than the first reported appearances of magic.”

Lydia flips her hair behind her shoulder. “That’s an easily misconstrued point. You looked for it in writing – I looked at even earlier recordings. Reports go back further than you think.” She pulls a paper from underneath a stack, it has a black figure with faded edges trailing behind a group of reddish people.

He runs a hand over the sheet cautiously, as if even a crudely drawn image of the beast could hurt him. “Was this – is this a cave painting?”

“Close,” she says as she grabs another. “They’re rock paintings, from the edges of cliffs in Nigeria. This one is from the same area.”

The black being in this painting is larger, and its arms longer. One is wrapped around a red figure. The thing’s head is tipped back and squiggled line follows from what Stiles is guessing is the mouth to the red figure’s chest. He draws in air in a short sharp breath and takes his hand away from the drawing.

Lydia looks up, facial expression approving for some reason. “It was human in the beginning. The first painting I showed you is somewhere in the middle of the beginning. The second is somewhere near the end.” She grabs a mound of pictures and hands them to Stiles. “Look at these and then I’ll finish explaining.”

The beginning cluster shows groups of hunters and gatherers, conflict between and amongst tribes, and the animals they caught – their daily lives basically. The second cluster shows a person from the hunting group coming in contact with something. It’s just a black line on the wall. The person seemed to fall ill, but then in the third grouping of photos they’re back amongst the hunters, just different.

It seems that as time went on the person was pushed from the group, regarded as an outsider for whatever reason. That’s when things seem to take a turn for the worse in the story drawn on the walls. The person killed people from the tribe one by one until, finally, the tribe was no more. One last painting shows an empty outline of a man and the black being linked. Stiles isn’t really sure what it means but it doesn’t evoke any feelings of relief.

Lydia clears her throat when she’s discerned that he’s finished and picks up the book that had been in her hands earlier. “This _thing_ has been around for centuries, millennia even. Its roots are in Africa, but there are recordings of similar beings as far as Europe and Asia.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “So, what is it?”

She waves a hand dismissively and continues on her lecture. “You and I both knew it wasn’t a shape shifter, but people back then weren’t as smart. They drew it in as one, so it was misrepresented for a while until the Maya began more detailed recordings.”

“Okay but what is _it_? How did you even know they were all talking about the same things?”

She smirks, “Everyone had their own names for it – but they all translate into something similar. A lot of the ancient African names are lost in translation sadly, but the Pipil peoples called it _teyollocuani_.”

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “I’m gonna take a stab here and say it has something to do with stealing energy.”

“Soul Eater.”

He brushes his hands over his arms in an attempt to warm them up, suddenly frigid. “And did the Pipil or Maya happen to figure out a way to kill this thing?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Obviously not considering the fact that it’s here now.”

“You know what I mean,” he huffs impatiently.

“Being that ‘he’ is dark and impure magic, some cultures proposed that a being of purer magic than its own would, _in theory_ , be able to stop it.”

He slumps against the table. “This is starting to sound like a Harry Potter rip off.” He pushes his thumb and forefinger against his eyes and rubs. “What do you think of all this?”

She sighs and closes the book in her hands then shoves it into Stiles’ chest. “I think we need to study and see what our options are.”

Stiles sighs and looks down at the leather bound tome, frowning. “Well at least I’ll have something to keep me awake tonight. _Not_.”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll be at the shop if you need me.” She kisses the top of his head and lightly pushes his shoulder before leaving.

~

Stiles is deep in thought when a figure comes into the doorway. They clear their throat to catch his attention and when he looks up he curves his lips up into a facsimile of a smile when he sees that it’s Derek. “Hey.”

The wolf bows his head in greeting. “Scott and Deaton said this body is the same as all the others.”

“No news there.” He flips aimlessly through the pages of the book in front of him, practically fanning himself. “Anything else from them?”

Derek pushes himself off the frame of the door and stands across the table. “This one was fae, stronger than the last three.”

The first person had been a human. Two through four were mixed breeds or weaker entities. Stiles wondered if the souls of preternatural beings were that much more nourishing.

“What was this person?”

Derek thumbs at the papers on the table, passively gathering info. “Nereid.”

Stiles’ stomach churns and sours. There was only one of those that he knew of in town. “Gwen. She – the lifeguard at the pool?”

The alpha nods.

“I hate this.” He clenches his hand around one of the photos and then watches with mild satisfaction as it burns in his grasp.

“I know.”

He meets the wolf’s eyes. “I’m going to kill this thing.”

Derek exhales and clenches his jaw. “I know.”

“Even if it kills me,” he whispers to himself.

Derek growls from across the table and a few pages wrinkle under his hands. “You aren’t about to die for this.”

The spark plays with the ash from the paper he burned until it becomes the symbol he wants. “And if it were for the greater good?”

Reaching across to grab his wrist, Derek says, “I won’t let you.”

Stiles sighs and stands, and the metal chair goes scraping against the floor. He puts a hand over Derek’s and pats it until he lets go. “I’m staying with you tonight then?”

“Yes.” Derek tenses, as if readying for Stiles to argue. Truth of the matter, he’s mildly relieved – not that he’ll say it, and he’s also far too tired.

“Do you want to come with me while I grab my things or should I just take Scott?” It was pretty obvious he wasn’t about to go alone, no one would let him.

“Scott. I have errands to run.”

“Errands?” Stiles chuffs.

Derek’s eyebrows crease. “Yes.”

“Like?”

“Worry about getting your things. If you aren’t at the house in two hours, I expect a phone call.”

“What do I have a curfew now?” He scrunches his face in distaste.

“Stiles.” It’s said with a measure of finality.

Not enough for Stiles though. “I’m gonna be alright Derek. You don’t need to be my babysitter.”

The rumble in Derek’s chest amps up and somehow he’s ten times more menacing, and _looming_ , even though he and Stiles are the same height. “Five people have been killed, each stronger than the last. Do you really think you’re that safe?”

Stiles gathers the materials from the table into a satchel and pointedly avoids eye contact as he retorts, “That means you aren’t safe _either_. Maybe _you_ should follow your own damn advice.” He flips the cover to the bag and heaves a sigh. “I’m not safe from this thing anywhere, Derek. Not even in my own head.”

“Get your things, and go straight to my house.” His voice is dark and serious and this time there isn’t an iota of space for Stiles to squeeze in a comment. Not without risking dismemberment, or worse – in his book, the silent treatment.

“I’ll be at the abandoned aviary,” Derek informs him shortly before leaving

“Okay,” he mumbles.

The doors swing shut behind the wolf and the room goes still again. Stiles sits back down for a moment and lays his head in his arms. He thinks about pouting, but no one is around to see his face so he decides it’s a waste of his energy. He does close his eyes to think though.

Derek only has errands at the aviary when he’s worried or confused – which isn’t often. He hates the place, it’s where the Morrígan hides. She’s the only other banshee in town, aside from Lydia, but she’s nowhere near as helpful as Lydia is to those outside of her kind. Sure, she had helped Lydia come into her own, but Derek kind of resents her for not warning him about the fire.

He can’t say anything about it either, the woman is a goddess, literally. Centuries old and the ancestor of all banshee. Plus, she only answers questions asked – you have to find her, she won’t find you. And even more confounding, she only answers questions she deems correct. But, if there was anyone that could tell Derek about death or things to come, it was probably Morrígan.

~

“Scott, what would you do if I died?”

Freezing mid task, the wolf lifts his head. “Why are you asking that?”

Stiles spreads his hands across his shirts to smooth and flatten them in the bag. “I don’t know. Derek brought something up and with all this funky business I can’t – it got me thinking.”

Scott grunts and finishes packing up vials in a box. “What did Derek say?”

“Nothing directly, but I can kinda feel him dancing around the topic of death.”

“Derek knows a lot more about death than most of us. He’s probably tired of hearing about it. No one wants to think about losing even more people in their life.”

Stiles zips the bag and rests his arms on it. “But he needs to address the situation at some point – I mean he _is_ going to the Morrígan, but that’s not what I mean. He needs to have a plan if one of _us_ dies. The way things are going right now it could only be a matter of time, not that I particularly love that thought.”

He backs away from the suitcase. “I just want him to acknowledge that it could happen instead of hearing him say _It won’t_ or _I won’t let it_.”

“Is this about one of your dreams?” Scott asks as he closes the box in front of him. It thuds together in that weird heavy sounding way wood does.

“Not really. I guess I’m just curious what your plan would be. Or if you even have one.”

Scott crosses his arms and frowns. “You really wanna know what I’d do if you died?”

Stiles looks him in the eyes and nods. “Yeah.”

“I’d move on.”

Stiles scoffs immediately. “ _Wow_. That’s – that was not what I expected you to say at all.”

Scott shoves him over onto the bed and lays down beside him. “I wasn’t done, dude. I’d move on because that’s what you’d want me to do. Sure, I’d be heartbroken and I would probably mope a bunch, but in the end I would move on. I’d end up naming one of my kids after you though.”

He grins softly at his friend. “That wasn’t really what I was expecting either.” Stiles sighs and sits up before he pats Scott on the chest with the back of his hand. “But Scott, please don’t ever name one of your kids after me. I’m twenty-four and I _still_ say my own name wrong if it’s too early.”

“I’d name them Stiles, dumbass. You don’t think I can actually spell your name, do you?” He laughs.

Stiles rolls his eyes and punches him in the shoulder. “No, I don’t, and _good_. Now come on, if I’m out past my bed time Derek’s probably gonna ground me.”

“Wouldn’t you love _that_.”

“Shut up.”


	8. Predator or prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, as promised chapters 1-8 are up. I will be posting 9-16 at a date that has yet to be determined (but one that shouldn't pass the end of this month)
> 
> I'm currently rewriting chapter 10 so I'll try to come back and let you guys know :)  
> Enjoy, and as usual these chapters are unbeta'd.

Sprawled out on Derek’s couch, Stiles toys with his inner spark. He drags it up his chest in a neat line and then out of his mouth without so much as a tickle. It kind of bums him out that when all is said and done he won’t be able to do silly things like this with it, it’ll be cemented somewhere in his core. But it isn’t yet, so he passes it back and forth between his hands at a leisurely pace and watches as the shadows on the walls shift accordingly.

He stops for a minute and puts his hand in front of the ball of light, casting figures onto the wall. He can’t do a bird with one hand so he does a bunny and then a dog, and then he snorts because his first thought after that is _Derek_.

When the humor of it dies out he sighs and inspects the little orb of energy in his hands with a twirl. There’s nothing of note to catalogue that he hasn’t already. And even if there were, his thoughts right now are too loud and too fast. He can’t help recapping what he’s read on the “soul eater” so far.

He’s made a running list of information and he’d write it down if he didn’t think that would make it more real. So he just repeats it to himself over and over in the backdrop of his mind as he goes about warping and bending his spark at will.

 **Point number one:** At first Stiles assumes this consumer of souls thing was a human hunter from a tribe in Africa that came in contact with the earliest form of magic known to man, and that his power eventually consumed him. In all actuality, that was false, which lead Stiles to point two.

 **Point two:** He found this tidbit after reading through a bit of Slavic folklore. The magic was actually an entity of itself, but could not survive long without a host – in this case the hunter. It was nothing more than a parasite. The host served as nourishment in times of dire need, but overall it was a means to obtain even more sustenance. So this _thing_ , referred to simply as Death in their text, consumed the life force of others in order to prolong its pitiful life.

Stiles squishes his spark between his fingers and thanks his lucky stars that his spark didn’t make him eat people alive. Which leads him to –

 **Point three:** While making connections, as Stiles so often does, he found that there were dormant periods in which Death seemed to vanish. The beast would be gone long enough that the generations following questioned whether or not it truly existed. It became folklore to them.

But it was no myth, the beast was merely asleep. For a few decades, never more than two centuries, Death would take a “nap” and let the other monsters have a go. Of course, this wasn’t because it was a chivalrous life-eating monster, it was because the thing had gorged itself on innocent lives.

And Stiles had been right in passing. The soul eater was working its way up to the crème de la crème. The beast would start off small after its naps, metaphorically dipping its toes in the water. The first victim was a light snack, the second like breakfast, and so on and so forth, until the seventh and final victim that was the energy equivalent of an all you could eat buffet. But this wasn’t even the worst bit of knowledge Stiles had gained.

 **Point four:** Each string of deaths actually started with the seventh victim in a way. Actually, the only reason Stiles even has a semblance of a timeline for all of this is because of the prophets. The prophets, otherwise known as the seventh victims, started each and every period of the soul eater’s awakening. They foretold great pain and loss, but of course no one listened to them because, by then, the beast had been gone so long.

Points three and four eat at him for many reasons. First, if everything went as recorded in each and every text Stiles came across, two more people would die. Second, Stiles was the one having nightmares about this thing. And judging by what he’s read and reread, that means he’s most likely the prophet, and one of the two people scheduled for death. Third, as if that wasn’t bad enough, even _if_ Stiles found a way to stop Death from killing those two people, the magic would simply jump hosts. The old body would turn to dust in mere moments and a new one would be tantalized by whatever it was the beast did to capture them. So, simply depriving it of goods wouldn’t kill it.

Stiles pulls his spark back into his body in one deep breath and sits up. He rests his arms on his knees and his head in his hands and then uses his spark as he exhales to solidify the breath into tiny ice crystals. The suspended pseudosnowflakes melt under his fingertips as he pokes them. Unsatisfied with his trick, he flops back down onto the couch, right arm and leg hanging from the side.

Needing a distraction from his thoughts for a moment, Stiles turns his attention to Derek. He’d been pacing around ever since he got back from the aviary. Stiles was surprised he hadn’t started working out, that was what he usually did when he was stressed. And Derek _is_ stressed, Stiles can feel it in the air like it’s his own worry.

“Derek.”

He makes some sort of inarticulate sound instead of forming an actual reply and stops moving.

Stiles pushes himself off the couch. “You okay, dude?”

The wolf turns his head, sweeping his eyes up and down Stiles’ figure before turning back to the window he’d been staring out a moment ago. “M’fine.”

“That’s a load of crap,” Stiles says beneath his breath. “You sure? You look like you’re in physical pain.”

He sighs. “I’m _fine_ , Stiles.”

“Okay, if you’re gonna lie the least you can do is look at me when you do it.” He holds one of his arms out toward the kitchen. “Follow me.”

Derek frowns, unready to move and caught in an untruth, but with an extra push from Stiles he walks to the kitchen.

Stiles sits him down at the island and stands across from him. “Alright. I’m gonna try again, but only because the third time is usually a charm – even with you. _Are you okay_?”

The man doesn’t answer for a while, just picks at his fingernails with an elongated claw. For a moment it looks like he’s going to answer, he even takes a deep breath, but then he just shrugs. Eventually he does manage to get out, “I’m fine.”

“ _Okayyyy_. We have three fine’s. You wanna try a different word?”

Derek clenches his teeth and grits out, “I’m fantastic.”

“Really sticking with the f words,” Stiles mutters. He claps his hands together and straightens his posture. “As much as I’d love to let this go, and really I would, I’m gonna have to call bullshit today. What did Morrígan say this time?”

“Nothing important.”

“Obviously it was since you’ve reverted back to brooding.” He gestures loosely at Derek’s face.

“I’m not brooding.”

Stiles lifts an eyebrow at him. “What else would you call silent pacing and angry frowning, Derek? Show dancing?”

The alpha rises from his assigned seat and moves toward the fridge. “Don’t you have reading to do?”

He’s tired of being dismissed and a little bit sleep-deprived, so he can’t be blamed for coming up behind Derek and shutting the fridge door. He takes the bottle Derek had managed to grab beforehand and sets it on the counter. He lets out a quick breath and then looks Derek in the eyes, unflinching. “I’m done reading. What I’d like to know now is why my alpha is more upset _now_ than when he left.”

Derek lets out a sigh and his shoulders shudder as it passes his lips. He looks up at the ceiling and then steps around Stiles to grab his drink. “Talking about death isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

“No one said it was.”

Popping off the cap with a claw, Derek sits back on his stool. “Morrígan was difficult, as usual.”

“I’m sure you were no better,” Stiles huffs as he leans onto the island. “Did she say anything; give you answer?”

Derek looks down the neck of the bottle and then sets it down. “Yes.”

“ _And_?” He prompts.

“The beast will be defeated.”

Stiles sucks in air quickly and lets it balloon in his cheeks. He lets it all out in a rush, wondering, “Why are you making it seem like that’s a bad thing?”

Derek clinks a claw at the glass bottle. “Killing it involves the sacrifice of another.”

“Oh.” _Shit_.

He nods and takes a long, smooth, swig of his beer.

“She say who?” Stiles is hoping Morrígan didn’t drop any names, it would make his life a lot harder than it already is because at this point he’s pretty sure it’s him.

Derek looks up, signaled to something in Stiles’ tone of voice. He narrows his eyes for a moment before letting it pass. “No. She said that wasn’t a relevant question,” he answers bitterly.

Stiles stretches a hand out tentatively and rests it on Derek’s forearm. He squeezes once and says, “We’ll figure this out okay? We always do.”

The wolf lets out an amused huff and nods. He and Stiles both know that’s not necessarily true. They survive by the skin of their teeth more often than their plans stick. And both of them know that what Morrígan said was most likely final. There were very few ifs ands or buts. Yeah, there were minor loopholes, but minor was the key word – because, like the pack’s plans, they were subject to failure more often than not.

Stiles drags his hand away and Derek almost looks put out by the loss. Even so, the spark goes to the fridge and gets his own drink before sitting down. “Everyone is stopping by in a few hours right?”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to order the food, or do you?” It’s an offer to help, one Stiles feels Derek will probably be more amendable to than _let me make you a special tea for the deep tissue stress you’re harboring_.

Derek tilts the bottle side to side in his hands but his eyes are fixed on Stiles’. “It’s pizza night.”

Stiles’ lips quirk up. “I got this.”

~

The pack huddles together on the floor to watch a movie. Everyone is surrounded in a nest of blankets and pillows.

Stiles almost had to bribe Derek into pushing the couches back so they could pool all the cushions together, but when Stiles said they’d all be huddled together if Derek just _did it_ , he caved. Despite the wolf’s initial arguments, Stiles can tell he’s enjoying himself (which he totally called). One of Derek’s greatest comforts is his pack, and he’s incredibly tactile on top of that, so what better way to make a stressed wolf feel better than a pack night puppy circle?

Stiles is gonna write that in the group text next time.

As he looks around the room he finds empty and ravaged pizza boxes stacked on a table to the side. Erica and Lydia are arguing about something in the realm of theoretical physics that Lydia had written in her dissertation. Stiles doesn’t even pretend he knows what they mean. Scott and Jackson are involved in an argument just as heated, though Stiles catches some tidbits about lacrosse _and_ Scott is totally right – Stiles isn’t biased at all.

Isaac and Derek sit in amicable silence, shoulders touching. They seem to be having a conversation of their own, just without words.

Stiles turns back to the movie, which Boyd has occupied himself with fully. It’s an awful movie, to put it lightly, but in a comical way. He leans into Boyd’s space to scoff, “There’s no way her hair would look that perfect after all of that.”

Boyd snorts, though it shows more so in his movements than in sound. “Out of everything that’s going on, you focused on that?”

“Come on, I’m not wrong. Why? What were you focusing on?”

The beta looks at him with a small measure of scrutiny before a small grin breaks across his lips. “I was more concerned by the cup of coffee that knocked down a whole row of servers. You’re telling me they didn’t have a failsafe?”

Stiles laughs, “Of course not. They spent all that money on Lamborghini squad cars.”

“And the paintings in the office.”

Stiles looks back up to the screen, then the wolf again. “Why – Boyd, I had no idea you had such an eye for the arts.”

He huffs out a small laugh and pokes Stiles in the ribs causing laughter to bubble up. Stiles sucks in a deep breath when he can and swats Boyd’s hand away. “S-Stop oh my god. You’re just as bad as Scott.”

Boyd smiles and looks back at the screen. “No. Scott actually believed you when you said you weren’t ticklish anymore.”

“No wonder you’re so quiet, you’re cataloging our weaknesses.”

He looks over and flashes his eyes at Stiles making him bust out laughing again. Jackson tells him to shut up and then Erica throws a pillow at him. It’s all downhill from there.

~

The next morning, as everyone leaves, Lydia hip checks him on her way out, giving him a pointed look.

“What?”

Her lips are pursed but she relaxes them enough to sigh. “You’re thinking of doing something stupid.”

He jerks his head back, confused. “Uh – I mean usually by your standards, but I haven’t actually formulated a stupid plan within the last twenty-four hours.”

Her frown deepens and her irritation is quickly replaced with motherly concern as she says, “Whatever you _might_ be thinking, stop. Spirits are already starting to murmur, and I think I know why.”

It’s not surprising that she’s figured out the same measure of information as Stiles, if not more. That’s Lydia for you.

Stiles looks around for any wolves within earshot and then leans in. “Lydia, I – we can talk about this later. At the shop tomorrow. We’re not talking about it here.”

He never thought he’d live to see the day surprise crossed Lydia’s face, but there it is. She quickly schools her features back into neat flat lines, but her voice sounds a little hurt as she says, “So it is you, _isn’t it_?”

He glances over his shoulder and leads her out the front door. “Lyds, please. Tomorrow. I promise this isn’t gonna end how you think it is, okay.”

She jabs a finger into his sternum. “ _No_ , I can promise you it _will_.”

He wraps a hand around hers and squeezes gently. “My queen.”

“Fine. Tomorrow,” she hisses, letting her hand fall. He can tell she’s not convinced at all, only willing to let it go for the time being. “And you better not be late.”

Stiles nods. “I’ll bring coffee.”

“Yes. You will.” She looks him over one last time before spinning on her heel and sauntering over to her car where Jackson had been waiting.

~

Stiles shoves cushions back into their respective places and then gathers up pillows while Isaac helps clear some of the clutter from dinner the night before, throwing away pizza boxes and cups. When he and the beta finish they sit on the couch in silence as Derek and Scott discuss Morrígan’s so called prophecy in the other room.

Stiles is the first to break the silence, as usual. “Isaac.”

“What?” He looks over at Stiles.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends on what it is.”

The spark smiles and then looks over his shoulder at Scott for a moment. “Promise to take care of him.”

He barely catches the glimpse of yellow in the beta’s eyes as he answers, “Always.”

Isaac watches him carefully after that, waiting for an answer he never gets. So he prods. “Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?”

Stiles shrugs and picks at his jeans. “You’re not.”

“But..” Isaac leads, carefully quiet so the others won’t pick up on it.

“But nothing,” Stiles finishes, just as quietly. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

His lips curve upward. “A few things.”

“That’s not an answer,” Isaac huffs, drawing his eyebrows down.

Stiles pats him on the shoulder before standing. “That’s because I don’t have one yet.”

Isaac joins him, pausing only to thump Stiles on the shoulder to catch his attention again. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You’re the second one to hint at that today,” Stiles complains.

“I mean it,” Isaac mumbles after Scott looks over. He smiles and winks and Scott beams back before talking to Derek again. Isaac finishes a second later with, “You’re a lot more important than you think. Don’t do anything to get yourself hurt.”

“Not sure where that came from, but thank you, I think,” Stiles says as he rubs his arm.

“It’s nothing new Stiles. You just don’t see it – or maybe you do, I don’t know,” Isaac mutters, jamming his hands into his pockets.

“Wait – what? I feel like _I’m_ missing something now.”

He shakes his head at Stiles and rolls his eyes. “You’re Derek’s second.”

Stiles’ chest tightens at the reminder. “I know, but why is that important right now?”

“A pack is nothing without its alpha and an alpha is nothing without a good second.” He turns away at that and heads over to Scott, grabbing his hand and whispering something in his ear.

Scott laughs, caught off guard and clears his throat. The only thing that gives him away is the tips of his ears turning pink.

“I’m guessing you aren’t staying for breakfast either?”

Scott smiles weakly, “You gonna be mad if I say no?”

“It’s fine I guess,” Stiles intones, feigning annoyance.

Derek sighs and directs his attention back to the pair. “Scott, I’ll see you later. Isaac,” he smiles at the beta and nods, letting him go. He follows Stiles to the kitchen shortly after.

While scooping the coffee grinds into the filter Stiles thinks about Isaac’s words. He actually didn’t need Isaac to verbalize the whole _you’re his second_ thing to overanalyze it, he’d been doing it since the day he found out. Now the pounding need to reexamine it is back full force though, more annoying than before.

Stiles rubs his chin with the back of his hand and looks over his shoulder. “Derek, can I ask you something?”

He raises his eyebrows, expression guarded otherwise, but grunts in the affirmative.

“Why am I your second?”

“Excuse me?” His eyebrows fall.

“Why. Am I. Your second?”

Derek looks him up and down for a bit, possibly stalling. He asks a question in return. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I just want to know. Do I really need a reason?” He shuts the lid on the coffee pot and presses brew.

Sighing, Derek says, “You don’t.”

“So, why me?” Stiles doesn’t want to know, he _needs_ to know. He’d been holding back because it didn’t feel important at the time, at least not in the same way it does now. It’s only important he know now because his life is in danger, and he doesn’t exactly know what happens to an alpha wolf when they lose their second in command. He hopes whoever is third behind him can step up if he does end up dying.

“I don’t have an answer.”

Stiles crosses his arms. “How do you not have an answer?”

“Because an alpha doesn’t _pick_ their second,” he growls.

That hurts. Both because Stiles wasn’t chosen and because Derek wasn’t given a choice. Autonomy is everything to him. “I can see that now. Thanks.”

Derek seems to shrink inward emotionally. His tone is carefully neutral as he says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s how you feel,” Stiles says rubbing a hand over his forehead then down his face altogether.

The wolf stands up from where he was seated and grinds out, “An alpha’s second is someone they trust.”

He snorts. “And what, you don’t trust the others?”

“ **I do.** ”

“Then?” He gestures to himself. Somehow this is more serious than Stiles had initially anticipated.

Derek bares his teeth. “Because my wolf trusts you with something it couldn’t give them.” As Stiles stands there gaping Derek shoves his chair back into its place. “Are we finished?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles responds coldly. The coffee pot sputters to a halt behind him, choking from the lack of water. “Why are you so pissed right now? Is it that you didn’t have a choice or because having me for a second is that frustrating to you?”

“That’s **no** t it,” Derek snaps. He collects himself with a deep breath and leaves, heading toward his room.

“Then what is it?” Stiles yells from the kitchen. When he doesn’t get an answer he goes jogging after the wolf. “What _is_ the problem, Derek?”

The alpha turns around, clearly threatened now as his eyes warp into red at the edges of his pupils. “ **You**. You are the problem, but not for the reason you think.”

“Tell me the reason then!” Stiles cries angrily. “Stop making me guess. _Let me in_.”

Derek growls, “No.”

Stiles’ heart nearly stops. “No? You’re really going to tell me that I’m the problem and then end the conversation like that’s an okay place to stop.”

“I ended this conversation in the kitchen.”

“Derek,” He centers himself and counts down his breaths. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Gladly,” Derek snarls, pushing Stiles from his room.

Stiles pushes right back. “If you shut this door I swear to god I’m leaving.”

He goes rigid and lets his eyes flood red, refusing to hold back. “Don’t.”

“Then explain to me what the big deal is. You’re treating this conversation like it’s wolfsbane.”

Derek tightens his grip around the door knob. “ _You_ are the big deal.”

“Oh – oh my god. Are we in fifth grade right now?”

Derek’s chest rumbles as he brings a hand up to grasp at something intangible. “You aren’t listening. As usual.” He ignores Stiles’ pinched look. “You listen to things in the wrong context or not at all. **You**. Are the big deal.”

Stiles places a foot back as Derek advances, but his jaw is still set in a firm line.

Derek continues, “I’ve told you why you’re my second, time and time again. You just never listen.”

Stiles uncrosses his arms. “That is not fair. Saying shit like ‘you’re important to this pack’ doesn’t count, cause I’m assuming that’s what you’re referring to. _Everyone_ is important in your pack. So if you meant something else –”

“What else would I mean?”

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to groan. “I’m asking you. I’m asking _you_. I want **you** to tell me.”

“Now is not the time, Stiles.” Derek backs away and reaches for the doorknob again.

“Will it ever be?”

Derek rests the side of his body against the door and sighs. “Stiles, just let it go for today.”

“I’m not going to wait for an answer forever Derek, I’m not that patient and you know it.” Impatience isn’t the issue here though.

The alpha smiles but there isn’t a single ounce of happiness behind it. “I know.” He closes the door.

Stiles rests his forehead against the wood and slams his fist against it. “Derek!”

He gets no answer, and the wolf ignores all subsequent knocks.


	9. Fallacies and fatigue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I made a slight miscalculation when estimating the period of time in which I'd have the rest of these chapters posted. I've been incredibly busy with tests, work, and papers to write (I made the awful decision to major in Cellular Biology and double minor in some other crap so bear with me).
> 
> Anyways! I haven't quite finished editing all the chapters from this second half because some of them I'm re-writing and that's like 20k+ of rewriting to do so...  
> I'm guessing it'll be up in it's entirety the second week of October. 
> 
> I'll try to post the chapters I _do have_ finished along the way.
> 
> Enjoy! And as always - unbeta'd.

Stiles wasn’t kidding when he said he would leave if Derek shut the door. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it though. Doesn’t slam the door or grab all of his things and run. He creeps out quietly after leaving a post-it on the front door that reads: _Going out. I’ll be back later_.

What Stiles needs is a space to talk things out without someone butting in or arguing with him. He needs his mom.

A cemetery sounds like the last place Stiles should be right now. Being here might tempt the fates to kill him a little sooner. But, he knows it’s hallowed ground, and after a run in with ghouls a few years back he bewitched the grounds even further with Deaton’s help. It doesn’t feel like a misstep being here. He feels safe, oddly enough.

The spark passes through the rows, stopping at Gwen’s grave before his mother’s. He didn’t know Gwen all that well, only in passing, but he knew with extreme certainty that she was a good person. Most Nereids were, as patrons of fisherman and sailors, but Gwen was even more bright and personable.

Her grave is empty at the moment, the earth awaiting her with open arms, but her headstone is already in place. It saddens him to know that she left the sea on her own, that her family would be unable to leave gifts in remembrance. He doesn’t even know if anyone’s told them that she’s gone. He wonders if they’d feel it like werewolves do.

Murmuring his apologies, Stiles touches her tombstone. A small coiling of wisteria wraps along the edges of the stone as he does, framing it. Its delicate petals skate along the edges of the words _May the ocean’s waves lull you in your endless sleep_.

“You remind me of wisteria,” Stiles whispers into the open air, hoping his voice carries to wherever her soul is. “They’re supposed to signify welcoming and playfulness. Not to mention they’re very pretty. Just like you were. Are, actually.”

He sighs, wrapping himself tighter in his coat as the breeze rolls by. “Don’t worry about them though, they won’t die or mess up your headstone. Y’know, magic. If I find out you don’t like them I’ll take them off.”

He sings a soft hymn and dispels as much positive energy as he can into the air around her grave. Before he leaves he mumbles, “I’ll make this right, Gwen. Promise.”

Once he gets to his mother’s grave he starfishes out against the crisp grass and stares up into the afternoon sky. He clears his throat, still a little teary eyed, and says, “Sorry I haven’t been in a while mom. Things have been pretty hectic on my side.”

Cool air brushes past him and through the trees, causing the leaves to shiver and twitch. He takes it as her accepting his apology and keeps going. “I mostly came because I need your advice. You were always good about letting me get everything out first and _then_ giving me advice. Everyone here has been a little too tense to do that lately.”

He brings an arm up and traces a cloud in the sky that looks a little bit like the profile of a person’s face. “I think I have to make a big decision pretty soon, and I think talking to you about it will help me figure out what to choose.”

Stiles rolls over and faces her tombstone. He taps a spot in the grass beneath it and watches as a rain lily creeps up, blooming in the light slowly then swaying in the breeze. “Here it goes. Lately a lot of people have been getting hurt. Dying actually. And – and it’s taking its toll on everyone.”

“I feel like I’ve been kind of self-centered lately, but I can’t stop thinking about how much is resting on my shoulders because of this thing that’s been killing people. I have so much to worry about, so many _people_ to worry about. I feel like no matter what happens here someone is going to get hurt – and if I could just minimize that, in any way…” sighing, he looks at her tombstone. “I just want this to work out. I want everything to go back to the way it was. I’m tired of being so stressed out about this.”

Uncomfortable with having his back exposed to the cold air he turns back to the heavens. “I mean, on top of this thing being next to impossible to kill, I have emissary training, I’m Derek’s second – and you know all about how I feel about Derek. Oh, and I have a shop to run. One I have been **seriously** neglecting because of this.”

“Man, I’m gonna owe Lydia so much time off I swear.” He rubs his hands over his face.

“I think in order to kill this thing I have to die mom. I don’t know if it’ll be a true death, but I’m not sure what’s worse – dying and leaving the pack behind, or living and being completely useless to them, devoid of my power. Because I think that’s what might happen.”

The wind quiets and the air goes stagnant. “Sorry, I know that’s a lot.” He cards his fingers though the grass and picks a blade to examine. “I’m – I want this to work out. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want anyone else to die either. I can’t let this thing win mom. I won’t – I **refuse**.”

After minutes of silence Stiles discards the broken blade and sighs, “I wish Derek would talk to me. Through all of this I can’t help thinking why, _why_ , why me? Why have I been chosen for half of this when there are so many others that are wayyyy more deserving – not for the death part.”

“Derek has the answer to at least one of those,” Stiles mutters. “But he won’t talk to me. Think he’s mad at me again.”

“I’m not mad at _you_ ,” comes a voice off to the side.

Stiles shoots up just as Derek melts out of the space between the trees, yelping, “Have you been listening to me this whole time?” That would be bad. That would be _very_ bad.

The wolf kneels down and then sits. “No, I know better then to invade the privacy of someone talking to their deceased mother.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles grumbles, plopping back into the grass. “What are you even doing here?”

“I was looking for you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Stiles mimics childishly.

Derek lets out a long sigh and lays down. “Just keep going.”

“What? _No._ I’m not gonna talk to my mom about you _in front of you_.”

Derek turns to look at him, arms folded neatly under his head. “Then talk to me.”

“What if I don’t want to talk to you?” Stiles looks away.

“You want to.”

He snorts. “That’s awfully presumptuous.”

“Talking is your thing. Besides, you want answers from me.”

Stiles frowns and looks back over at Derek, he’s all stretched out, pliant and soft looking in his maroon Henley and dark jeans. Stupid werewolf didn’t have to wear a jacket. Stiles holds his arms around himself, cold just looking at him. “How’d you even find me?”

Derek glances at him and his lips curve downward ever so slightly. “I could find you anywhere.”

“That sounds a lot creepier than you seem to think, man.”

“ _Stiles_. Ask me what you want to ask.”

He rolls onto his stomach to look at Derek. “Now? What’d you think I was dead in the whole,” he looks at his watch, “hour and a half I’ve been gone? Why am I allowed to ask now?”

“Do you want your answer or not?”

“I wanted it two hours ago!” Birds lift from their perches in the trees around them and fly off. Stiles buries his face in the grass and lets out a deep breath. “I’m not fighting with you above my mom’s grave Derek.”

“I’m not trying to fight with you,” Derek replies softly.

“You were earlier.”

He grimaces. “I – I was out of line.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Uh.”

“The reason you’re my second is because you are important,” Derek confesses in a rush. Though to Stiles it doesn’t really feel like a confession.

“I… get that.”

“In a different way then everyone else,” Derek says, coaxing him along the line of thought.

Stiles sighs. “You said that earlier, will you just spit it out?”

Derek sends him a withering glance. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“I know it isn’t. I can see and feel how emotionally constipated you are on a daily basis.”

The alpha’s face darkens even further until he turns away altogether, looking up at the sky. “I don’t get how you haven’t figured it out already.”

Stiles’ skin prickles and he turns. “You’re not exactly forthcoming.”

“What makes you _different_ Stiles? Don’t you wonder?” Derek muses aloud.

He sits up and looks down at Derek, unsure if he heard him right at all. “Wh – I don’t. I don’t know. I’m not a wolf, I’m not – I’m just human.”

Derek chuckles darkly. “And yet you throw yourself in the line of fire the most. Challenge dangerous beings like they couldn’t kill you.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“It’s always been about that. You’ve just never noticed”

Stiles rests his chin on the tops of his hands. “Derek, you’re losing me here. If you’re pissed I’m your second cause I’m the most danger prone then you should be mad at your wolf for picking a liability, not me.”

Derek sits up and comes eye to eye with Stiles. “I’m not upset that you’re my second. And when I said an alpha doesn’t choose their second, it wasn’t meant to be taken at face value.” His face closes off, becoming next to unreadable as he takes a deep breath, but Stiles can still feel him. Can still feel the way Derek’s skin trembles underneath his clenched fists as if he were the one clenching them.

“I couldn’t have chosen you anymore than I could’ve picked the weather for today. You are a random event.”

“Poetic.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek sighs. “Just – this is serious and I need you to listen.”

Stiles nods and looks down, “Right, sorry.”

Derek lets out a rush of air and continues. “You can only choose so much in your life. Yes, I chose to let you in, albeit grudgingly, but I didn’t choose how we interacted over the years. There’s no way I could have any manner of control over you – you never fucking listen.”

“ **Hey!** That’s –” he quiets when Derek glares at him again and then rolls his hand forward to get Derek to continue.

“I _meant_ that you made the decision for me, and for once it wasn’t a bad thing. It _isn’t_ a bad thing. And part of that is because you _want_ to be my second, born to fucking give tactical advice. But part of it is because…”

“Because?” Stiles lilts when Derek trails off.

“Because you’re my mate,” he admits beneath his breath after a lengthy pause.

“I’m – I’m your... _What?_ ”  It feels like gravity shifts and then pulls into a complete new direction, and it definitely doesn’t make Stiles’ stomach feel good. He actually wants to puke right now. He _obviously_ didn’t hear that right. There’s no **way** he could’ve heard that right.

**_Haven’t you wondered why you can feel his every emotion when he’s near?_ **

Stiles looks back up at Derek.

 **_I could find you anywhere_ ** **.**

“Oh my god...”

Derek stands and dusts himself off, carefully neutral once again. “We should get going.”

“Whoa, wait a damn minute,” Stiles squawks, getting up. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve known about being your second for almost two years, Derek.”

“Timing,” he answers shortly, walking back to his car.

 _Well your timing is no better now_ , Stiles thinks angrily. He turns back to his mother’s grave to say goodbye and then catches up.

“That’s your excuse? Timing. You’ve been ‘timing’ this for two years?”

“It’s not an excuse,” Derek says, turning back around to face him.

“Then what the hell would you call it?”

“A reason.”

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets. “Potayto, potahto.”

“Would you have believed me back then?”

He grinds his foot into the gravel of the parking lot. “That’s. Don’t even. You know –”

The wolf straightens himself out as if readying for a hit. “Do you feel the same?”

Apparently Stiles is the one who should’ve been preparing for the hit. He can’t do this, whatever this is, with Derek. Not if he might die two weeks down the line. Derek deserves better. He deserves stability, something tangible.

Derek’s jaw clenches when the pause lasts too long and he moves to get in his car, but Stiles grabs the door before it shuts. “Derek, wait. It’s not that I don’t, it’s just –” he lets out an exasperated breath. He doesn’t have the words for this. If he just had _time_.

“It’s just what?” Derek grinds out. His anger practically rolls off of him in waves, but he isn’t mad at Stiles, and as if that isn’t the abysmal cherry on top Stiles can feel how hurt the wolf is.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stiles chokes out. It’s spoken so much softer than he means it to be, nothing more than a quiet breath ghosting over his own lips.

A bright and furious light flares to life behind Derek’s earthen eyes as he says, “If you’re not coming back, go to Isaac and Scott’s.” Then he jerks his door away from Stiles’ hands.

The spark pleads for the alpha to stop, but the door is shut once again.

Derek speeds off, spitting up gravel underneath his tires as he goes. Stiles has no choice but to turn back to his own car, come up with some sort of plan for how to fix this. In his frustration – at the world, the day, everything – he punches the jeep door, crying out when it refuses to waver beneath his knuckles.

By the time he gets back Derek is locked in his room, seemingly forever.

~

The tree nymphs chatter incessantly. Stiles wouldn’t mind if he could understand, but right now it just sounds like there’s a windstorm. The leaves sway hurriedly in a frantic song and dance, but it’s Greek to Stiles. Actually, he understands Greek just fine. A better comparison would be Russian. Or just tree nymph.

He has no earthly clue what they’re saying.

While he can’t understand them until they decide to let him in on their secret he gets the feeling that it’s not good. But when is it ever good in Beacon Hills? Also, he can’t remember the exact reason he’s out in the woods right now. It’s just a small grove behind his apartment where the tenants with pets usually take them out to roam around in the clearing that lies in the center, nothing special.

He remembers something about a tentacle, or maybe a tennis ball? Neither of those make sense to him out of context.

Stiles stops walking to get a feel for his surroundings, but the crunch of leaves under foot doesn’t. The frantic whispers of the leaves turn to screams as the nymphs peel back their trees from a line in which some intruder walks.

Stiles remembers now. He remembers that in order for all of this to go away more than just five people will have to die.

“Stiles, it’s nice to see you.” The thing cuts in, interrupting his thoughts. It sounds clearer now, almost human, but Stiles isn’t fooled.

He fires back with, “Wish I could say the same about you _telloyocuani_.”

The thing stops and gives a toothy smile, now a not so mirror or him. “And here I thought you’d never figure me out.”

Stiles rights himself and calls upon his spark, powered by his own righteous fury. Blue flames lick at his arms painlessly. “I liked it better when you didn’t talk as much.”

The other him tilts their head. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.”

It’s a never ending circle with the two of them meeting and colliding, then repelling each other forevermore. The flames on Stiles’ arms burn brighter, almost white, as the consumer makes a grab for him, and rather then flinch away from the flames it sucks the energy up along its body until it’s one mass of unnatural fire. Stiles rears back and tries to call up something, anything else, but a tentacle finds its way around his neck.

“Thanks for all your help. I might actually be able to rest longer than usual when I’m done with you.” It seems to think about it for a moment and then a sick grin plays across the stolen form’s lips. “You know what? Maybe I’ll stick around. You seem to have quite the following.”

Stiles manages to get a knife out of his back pocket to slash the thing’s arm before it can get too much of his spark. Sadly, it’s not as effective as he’d hoped it would be and the thing just squeezes tighter. It can’t actually kill Stiles though, not right now, not in a dream, so he holds onto that knowledge through the pain and tests his luck. “Screw. You.”

The thing slams him into a tree, irritated, but somehow Stiles manages to get the last word before he blacks out. “Can’t even finish me off with your own powers huh. Do you even have any or are you just gonna slam me into a tree over and over?”

The beast doesn’t take to his attitude all that well and steps on his ribs.

~

Stiles wakes up cold. Freezing and shivering, actually. And all he can hear is something growling. Scratch that, multiple somethings growling. Weirder still, his eyes are closed but the room is bright enough that he can see shadows through his eyelids.

 _Ohhh_. His arms. Stiles opens his eyes and looks down at them. They blaze bright blue in the dark room. When he’s satisfied with his surroundings, Leto and Derek in the guest room, he lets the flames die out.

Derek looks like a nervous wreck. Stiles wonders what that means _he_ looks like.

“What happened this time?” Stiles winces as soon as he says it, remembering that talking should probably be kept to a minimum. His ribs and larynx would thank him.

The bed dips under Derek’s weight as he takes up the space at Stiles’ side, his body the conversation as he draws Stiles’ pain away through his hand. And oh is there pain. A lot of it. His arms are blackened with bruises and he wouldn’t be surprised if his neck was fucked up. His ribs definitely are. _Again_.

“Ow,” he mumbles after the processing delay. Everything begins to throb all at once.

“You should have stayed in my room,” Derek huffs under his breath.

“That wasn’t exactly an option afforded to me.”

“Could’ve been.”

Stiles closes his eyes, whispering, “You _locked_ your door.”

“You gave me your answer,” Derek says bitterly.

“No I didn’t!” He hisses out, throat seizing at the harshness of it. He shoves Derek’s hand away petulantly. “You wouldn’t listen to me.”

The wolf’s hand tenses, closing around the covers and easing only after a few moments pass. “Where are your things?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“What do you want, Stiles?” The wolf’s eyes are hard and calculating as he takes stock of the spark.

Stiles digs his fingers into his palms. “ **You**! God fucking damn it – I want _you_ , but right now is the _worst_ possible time,” he wheezes, “and I blame you for waiting two fucking years to say something.”

Derek’s eyes flash in the dark room. “I told you the timing was bad.”

Stiles drags in a ragged breath and thwaps him on the shoulder, surprisingly hard for all the pain he’s in. “I know that. I’m not arguing that point right now.”

“Then what _are_ you arguing about?”

“This. Us. Everything.” Stiles shrugs, feeling hopelessly annoyed.

“There is no _us_.”

Stiles narrows his eyes through the darkness. “You are so fucking lucky I can see through your bullshit because otherwise that would’ve hurt as much as you wanted it to, and I’m already in pain right now, so that’s rude.”

Derek leans forward. “Who says that’s bullshit?”

Stiles follows the movements of the wolf’s eyes. “Me. I’m calling bullshit right now. I think you know exactly how I feel.”

They maintain eye contact for some time, though Stiles doesn’t know how long because all he can focus on is the throb in his bones and the way Derek’s eyes won’t stop moving across his face to look at god knows what. Eventually Derek slinks back toward the edge of the bed and silence falls between them, aside from the wind whistling at the window off to the side. Leto sits beneath it, grumbling softly.

After a few minutes the alpha speaks again. “You need your things, where are they?”

Stiles swallows, throat scratchy and raw. “They’re downstairs behind the couch. But – stay, please. Don’t leave yet.”

Derek looks up from his hands. “Why not?”

He lets out a dark and bitter chuckle causing his muscles to twinge. “God you’re gonna make me spell it out aren’t you?”

Derek’s brows furrow and his hand finds its way back onto Stiles’ skin, causing another plaintive breath to escape him. He would really love to give into Derek’s soothing touch right now, but he shoos the hand away. “Help me sit against the headboard.”

The wolf moves around the bed to his side and pushes the pillows out of the way. He tucks one hand under Stiles’ thighs and another on the small of his back, lifting him. The pillows are then neatly placed all around him.

Stiles looks up at Derek, and even though his fondness masked by immense pain he manages to joke, “So, you can carry me bridal style.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Can I get your things now?”

The spark frowns. “Not yet. I don’t have the capacity or the will to fix any of this right now. Just come here.” He thumps his hands against his legs.

Derek quirks an eyebrow up so Stiles elaborates, slowly and in between labored breaths. “Lay down with me, hold one of my hands to draw out some of my pain, and let me run my fingers through your hair.”

“You’re serious.”

He tries to sigh dramatically but his ribs abstain causing him to clutch his side. “Yes. It’s to help me relax. I – I feel better when you’re close, okay.”

Surprise looks interesting on Derek because it’s all in his eyes, and for a second Stiles thinks Derek might walk away – flat out refuse, but then he holds out a hand for Stiles. The wolf rests his head against the good part of Stiles’ chest, and even still Stiles can tell he’s is holding back his full weight.

He grins for half a second, grateful for Derek’s care, then scrubs his fingers against his scalp. Stiles closes his eyes, comforted, surprised Derek’s actually letting him do this. He kind of feels like he _shouldn’t_ be doing this. Shouldn’t be forming a tactile bond on top however many others they share. In all honesty it’s a little to late for him to worry, he knows that.

Beneath his fingers Derek makes soft sounds, upset and pleased all at once, like he’s confused by how comfortable he is in the moment. Stiles scratches behind Derek’s ear, moving his way up to rub at his temple.

The wolf shifts and speaks right when he looks as if he’s about to doze off again. “Leto woke me.”

Stiles’ hand stills for a moment. Leto woke him? Leto’s not one to interact with people unless ordered to do so by Stiles – not even with Scott. It’s just not how familiars are. The spark picks at a particular strand of Derek’s hair and runs his fingers along it, playing nonchalant. “And then?”

“You weren’t making any noise. At all.”

Derek tenses up at the memory, but Stiles mitigates the issue with his hands, taking his other from the alpha’s grasp to rest it on his face. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Derek narrows his eyes. “Lie.”

“You know what I mean,” Stiles sighs. “I’m alive, I’m here.”

“I couldn’t do anything about it,” Derek mutters sorely.

He makes a move to get up from his spot in Stiles’ arms, but Stiles pulls him back without much resistance and places his hands on Derek’s cheeks, forcing the wolf to look him in the eyes. “Lydia and I are going to come up with a plan and we’re all going to end this. And then – then I’ll explain some things. If I can.”

Derek clenches his jaw beneath Stiles’ hands. The tension in his muscles has Stiles sweeping a soothing thumb out over his sharp lines, across the rough stubble on Derek’s jaw. Then he tugs Derek forward, empowered by the residual adrenaline still humming through his veins, and presses his lips to Derek’s. The alpha stills beneath Stiles’ touch but he responds eventually.

It’s soft and slow, and so _so_ timid. Each of them afraid to break the other. Derek kisses him back, sure but delicate, careful not to be to rough, and something about the way he does it makes Stiles’ heart break. Because Derek has no idea. He has no clue what’s really happening. Yet he probably does because he loses everything he loves. And that’s exactly the way he’s kissing Stiles, like it might not last.

Stiles draws his mouth back, emotions twisting in his core like a painful knot, and kisses Derek on the cheek before resting his forehead against the wolf’s. “That’s in case I can’t.”

A low level whine escapes Derek and he drags his nose up Stiles’ cheek, marking him. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing the spark’s scent in, and then slides from the bed.

Stiles tries not to fall asleep while he waits for Derek to come back upstairs, but he’s so exhausted he can’t help it and drifts off. He wakes to the gentle touch of Derek’s hands, parts of his wounded body already covered in a balm, with Leto sitting by his head. She looks down at him and bows her head to sniff him and then returns to her watchful position.

He nudges her in the leg and then looks back to Derek. “You’re a quick study.” His voice is scratchier than before.

“How are you feeling?” Derek asks on an exhale.

Stiles takes a moment to push his spark through his body to test all the weak points, it’s not good. “Like shit, but I’ll live.” He coughs and then groans when the resistance in his abdomen is too much. He takes a series of short breaths until he feels he can handle a deeper one. “Why is it so cold?”

Putting a few things back in the box, Derek mutters, “Probably because your heart stopped beating for about a minute.”

He flinches. “You heard that?”

Derek shakes his head. “Saw it first. Your flames went out.”

“Well there’s some symbolism I never thought I’d see outside of high school English.”

“Stop joking about this.”

“I’m not joking about this because I find it comical. I joke because it makes it easier. You of all people should understand that about me by now.”

Derek plucks a mug from the bureau beside the bed and brings it to Stiles with a sigh, not even pressing into the argument. “Drink this.”

Stiles does so readily, as the wolf packs up the rest of the box and leaves the room. It warms his core and spreads its tendrils out, soothing him. He smiles lightly as the extra teaspoon of honey becomes apparent to his taste buds. Derek made his tea right. When he’s finished with the drink he sets it off to the side and calls upon his spark. It hovers above him, dim and a little worn so Stiles sings a little enchantment to it under his breath and watches as the light above him warps into a fiery red.

He lets himself bask in it for a moment, drinking in its healing effects, until he feels well enough to do the rest on his own. Then he drags the light back into his chest and cracks his knuckles, then presses his now red hands to various parts of his body. He’ll be lucky if he has much energy left when he’s finished.

Derek pads back in before he’s done and stands at the edge of the bed, watching him. Stiles doesn’t pay him any mind, more focused on a particular spot in his neck. He closes his eyes as soon as his hand touches it and lets out a hiss.

The alpha clears his throat.

“Hm?” Stiles answers.

He hears Derek move closer. “Do you want to sleep in my room, or in here?”

Stiles cracks one eye open. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“Where do you think?” Derek questions dryly, looking down at him.

Closing his eye again, Stiles shrugs. “I didn’t know if we were okay or not.”

“Really.”

He stretches his arms above his head experimentally and tilts to each side to test the give in his ribs. Everything feels sore, a bit sticky as if unused. “Are we okay?”

Derek sighs and comes closer still. “I don’t know. But, I want you to be safe.”

Stiles pauses in his routine and opens his eyes. “I’m okay now.”

“But you weren’t before, and this isn’t over. I don’t like the thought of you dying.”

Stiles smiles quickly, there and gone in a flash. “Try seeing it in your dreams a few times.” _Try planning for it_.

“That doesn’t make it easier,” Derek grumbles.

“Never said it did.” He runs his fingers trough his hair and lets out an agitated sigh. “Just – promise you’ll stop walking away from me when things get obnoxious to you.”

“Stiles.”

“What are you gonna do when we live together?” Stiles huffs.

Derek’s eyebrows raise and only then does Stiles realize he may be getting a little ahead of himself. “Okay let me amend –”

“No, I – don’t.”

A shy smile crosses Stiles’ lips and he lets out a small hum. “I mean it though. Talk to me.”

“You talk enough for the both of us.”

Stiles grabs one of the pillows from behind himself and stands. “But I can’t guess what’s going on in your head. I’m not that good.”

Derek looks up. “Fine, but the same goes for you.”

“I’m gonna keep a goddamn ‘fine’ counter for you I swear,” he mutters under his breath. At Derek’s menacing glare he says, “Okay, okay. I’ll try my best to keep you informed too. Now come on, we’re sleeping in your bed.”

The wolf takes his free hand and follows.


	10. Fatidic dreams

“I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” Stiles asks as he enters the shop backwards, pushing open the door with his butt, hands occupied.

Lydia considers him from the front desk, hands clasped together. “There is no good news with you.”

Stiles hands her the latte in his left hand then rests his elbows on the counter. “Fair enough. There _is_ more bad news than good news, technically. And the order that you ask determines what’s good and what’s bad – everything’s relative.”

She takes a sip of the drink and hums contentedly before setting it down and shutting a book that she’d been reading before he came in. “Give me the good news. I already know what the bad news is.” She narrows her eyes at him.

“Oh, but you don’t,” he says with a shake of his head. He hops onto the counter and takes another sip of his coffee. “So, Derek likes me.”

“That’s not news, honey.”

He frowns at her. “Excuse you, that’s news to me.”

“Yes, and _only_ you,” She replies haughtily.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever. My point is that I’m his mate.”

Lydia sighs, “How would this have been bad news if I’d asked for bad news first?”

“Because I’m probably going to die – duh.” He picks at the coffee sleeve on his drink.

“And you’re worried about what will happen to the pack if you do.”

Stiles sets the cup down and turns toward her. “I’m not so sure it’s an _if_ anymore.”

She crosses her legs, then her arms. “You don’t know though.”

“Lydia, you are the smartest person I know. I don’t have to know because _you_ do. You pretty much said so yesterday.”

“I said you were thinking of doing something stupid.”

Stiles takes a sip of his coffee then speaks into the lid, “Mhmm and added that the spirits were chattering. There are few times when you mention their murmurings and a person lives.”

She unfolds her limbs and stands to come around to the front. “They didn’t say anything about you dying.”

He slides off the counter and follows her to the display she’s adjusting and neatening nervously. “Morrígan might have.”

Lydia freezes and a bulb of incense rolls onto the floor, clacking and pattering its way under another table. Her hand closes around something that isn’t there. “When?”

Stiles retrieves the fallen object and takes it to her, opening and then closing her hand around it. “Derek talked to her a few days ago. She said that in order to defeat the consumer another must die.”

She scoffs and puts down the liquid incense before tugging at her blazer, smoothing out the kinks. “That doesn’t mean you’re going to die, idiot.”

“Your concern is heartwarming,” Stiles says after rolling his eyes. He finds his way back to the counter and pats it expectantly. Lydia turns her nose up at it but follows to stand beside him.

“We both know that in order to put this thing to rest someone with purer magic has to do something – something _bad_ – and if this thing already wants to kill me then why pretend there’s another way around this. Maybe I’ll be the one to kill him once and for all.”

Her hardened gaze falters briefly. “You can’t beat this thing alone. If you sacrifice yourself then that’s it, there’s no coming back.”

He frowns. Dying doesn’t exactly have loopholes, at least none Stiles is willing to deal with, and he isn’t about to think about Peter and his return. So, he shrugs off the the thoughts and says, “Probably not. But it’ll put an end to this once and for all.”

Lydia clenches her jaw and then punches him in the shoulder. “Dumbass.”  She ignores his cry of pain and rounds the corner to pick up the book she’d been reading and sets it down forcefully in front of him. “Lucky for you, I knew you had some stupid plan that was bound to get you hurt or killed.”

The banshee flips to the page she has bookmarked and then picks up a box from underneath the counter. It’s all neat black lines and ruby filigree. She runs a manicured finger across it and then stops at the edge. “The spell’s been done before so you don’t have to worry about unforeseen kinks.” She clicks a nail at the page, urging him to read, and he does so.

When he’s finished he looks up from the old and worn pages. “I’m not sure if I’m reading this right, the words are a little smudged, but are you seriously telling me you found a way to put half my soul in a bottle?”

She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “I’m not the one who found it.”

“Then who, because, and lets just backtrack here, you’re telling me that dark magic and light magic have to duke it out, and now we’re adding in soul splitting?” He pushes the book back toward her, “This is sounding more like a JK Rowling novel then I care for. Are you messing with me because I ate the last yogurt the other day? Or because I made you late for date night? ‘Cause this isn’t funny.”

Lydia clacks her nails along the wooden counter impatiently. “Deaton gave me the book. Why your life parallels a magical realm conceived by a British woman is beyond me, but you’re definitely not the Harry in this story.”

“Yeah, he was _the boy who lived_. Me, not so much.”

She lets out a pained sigh and continues. “Look, just because the spell doesn’t have any surprise kinks doesn’t mean it isn’t flawed.”

“Obviously, I only get to keep half my soul.”

Waving a hand, she says, “That’s not the problem. If you kill the consumer the two parts of your soul should be just fine – as long as you get your half back from the thing. The real hiccup lies within the reconnection of your soul’s parts. Not to mention I haven’t the slightest idea how this will affect your familiars.”

Stiles grimaces, he hadn’t even thought about that part yet.

“While people have done this there have been… issues with that part of the spell.” She purses her lips and then traces the lines of text as if reading by touch. “Some people lost their memories, others lost –”

He tugs at the book slightly. “What?”

“Humanity, control, all semblance of self. It varies,” she finishes coldly.

Stiles draws his hand back. “This is starting to sound like a bad plan.”

She snaps the book shut and pins him with a glare. “I never said it was a good one. It’s an alternative to an even worse one.”

“Maybe we can kill him after he goes back to sleep,” he sighs, running a hand across the counter top in small circular motions.

“In which case you’ll be dead, if you really are the prophet.”

He flinches. “Right.”

Lydia sets the box on top of the book and slides them both beside Stiles. “Look, I wasn’t there when Morrígan spoke, so I can’t tell you what they meant when they said this thing’s death requires sacrifice. So your best bets are to take these, and then ask them yourself.”

Stiles traces a neat spiral on the box. “You gonna come with me?”

She looks up from beneath her lashes, eyes dark, and waves a hand at the shop. “Working.”

“Afterwards.”

“I think you can handle it, Stiles.”

He sighs and takes the book and box, turning toward the door. He stops before he opens it. “Lydia, what’s in the box?”

She sits down and says, “Read the book. It’s almost everything you need.”

~

Stiles isn’t quite sure he wants to open the box, so it sits in his jeep while he visits Morrígan.

The walk up to the aviary’s gates is a lengthy hike. Once he’s inside the mesh dome crows land around him, lining the trees and fence that lead to the quaint abode of the Phantom Queen. Their presence chills him to the core, but he continues toward the front door. Clay pots dot the porch, each decorated in delicate symbols and filled with beautiful flowers. It’s an odd juxtaposition in Stiles’ opinion considering the fact that Morrígan is a battle goddess.

He’s glad for it though. The place creeps him out otherwise. All the trees here are half dead and even though the mesh to keep the birds in is torn well enough that they could escape they all seem to congregate in the area anyway. Their beady eyes track him as he nears the front door, an unnerving amount of intelligence filling them.

Stiles clears his throat and looks away then presses his finger to the pentagram drawn on her door. East, “I call upon the black winged Morrígan.”

South, “I call upon the queen of battle.”

West, “I call upon the Phantom Queen.”

North, “I call upon the mother of the gods and tribe.”

He blinks and the world contorts into a dark hue, as if night was able to fall in mere milliseconds. Then the front door swings open on its own, allowing him entry. He steps inside and is greeted by the chatter of even more crows sitting upon a throne. At his nearing they crowd closer and closer still until finally a flash of black smoke erupts and coalesces into the Morrígan’s form.

She’s gotten older since the last time he saw her, dramatically so, but she still only looks to be in her thirties – not at all telling of the centuries she’s spent on the planet. She smiles at him, white teeth standing in stark contrast against her dark attire and crow feather black hair that shimmers purples, blues, and greens in the light that breaks into the cottage.

“Spark. Your friend visited me recently, did he not?”

Stiles tentatively takes a step forward and bows before he speaks. “He did. But, uh, I’m here for clarification.”

The being sweeps their hand over the arm of the throne, motioning for him to continue.

“You mentioned death to Derek.”

His pause is long enough that Morrígan laughs, throaty and alluring. “As sovereign ruler of the banshee I tend to do so at times.”

Stiles smirks. “Sorry, allow me to elaborate. You mentioned that an enemy of ours could not be killed without the death of another.”

They nod solemnly.

“My question is, does that prophecy refer to previous death, or a death of battle?”

Light flashes over the Phantom Queen’s eyes. “Such direct questions cannot be answered, young spark. You know this. Not to mention, that message was tailored specifically for the wolf.”

Stiles sighs. “I was hoping you could make an exception this time.”

Morrígan smiles thinly and stands, gown pooling at their feet in wave after wave, never stopping. They lift a hand, prompting him to follow them into what looks like an armory. They turn to a work bench and pull something from one of the drawers, brushing the dust off with a delicate but hardened hand. “No exceptions. You must ask the right question.”

He pulls his hands from his pockets and brushes his sweaty palms against his jeans. If there’s any feminine being other than Lydia that can make him nervous it’s Morrígan. “Are you allowed to lead me?”

They turn back, same expression written in their features as Lydia’s whenever he asks something obvious. “Has it been that long since you’ve seen me last?”

“I haven’t had to deal with death of this magnitude or importance in quite some time.”

They sigh and run the object, which Stiles has identified as a silver comb, through their hair, saying solemnly, “I cannot provide you with an answer if you do not ask for it – and that answer must be for yourself, not another.”

Stiles bites his lip and then asks, “Is death close?”

Morrígan’s features dull slightly and their hair pales to a dark and stormy grey. “Yes.”

 _Okay, there’s one question down._ He tosses around ways to phrase things in his head and then asks again, “Is death close to me personally or close in time?”

They pull the comb through their hair repeatedly and grin. “Define close in time. You and I have very different perceptions of the concept.”

“Close as in day.”

Paler still their hair color fades. “Yes, death is close in time. As for the former part of the question, the answer I give can be misconstrued, but I will only say yes.”

He runs a hand through his own hair and taps his foot against a dusty wooden floorboard. His line of questioning will be up when Morrígan’s hair turns white so he has to choose carefully.

“Off the record, you see all, right? As far as what’s going on in Beacon Hills at this moment.”

They nod.

“Then this method of preservation Lydia suggested – is it a worthwhile endeavor?”

Their hair remains unchanged. “Yes and no.”

“That’s not – that’s not really an answer,” he frowns.

The queen points to their hair. “That wasn’t the right question.”

He looks back at them, confused. “Wait, then why did you give me an answer?”

“You said off the record.” They smile, oozing radiance from their every pore.

Stiles gapes. “If I say that before every question will you answer it?”

“Not if it interferes with the balance,” They say, rolling their eyes.

Balance. Right. He tries again. “If that didn’t interfere with the balance then… then my supposed death isn’t the important one in this story, is it?”

Their hair dulls slightly. “That’s a matter of perspective, but a correct assumption.”

“Wait… so _do_ I die?”

Morrígan sighs and pulls the comb from their hair, removing a strand with their delicate and clawed fingers. “Your directness is causing me to grey prematurely.”

It startles a laugh from him. “Sorry.”

They wave a hand dismissively and set down the comb, leading him from the armory into a kitchen. They pull two mugs from a glass cabinet and as they turn back around, offer one to Stiles. It’s full of tea when he gets it. He grins into the cup as he inhales the smell of honey and something else, something floral. It warms his hands.

“You still haven’t asked the right question.”

Stiles clacks a finger against the cup. “But I’m close.”

A nod.

He takes a long breath, basking in the smell of the tea. It’s sweet, but in a muted way, which is what reminded him of a flower in the first place, but he can’t quite identify the scent. He can’t identify a lot of things lately.

“Is this important death a fixed point or a mutable one?”

They hum and a wicked smile grows on their face. “That depends.”

He scoffs and scrunches his eyebrows downward. “Does it depend on something I do?”

Silver hair frames their striking face now. “Yes.”

He pales at the thought and sets his tea down on the counter in front of him. Steadying himself he asks, “Do I make the right decision?”

They seem to think this over for a moment, eyes going soft and then sad. “I think that is a question best answered by you, Stiles.” They spin the liquid in their mug around with their finger before taking a sip.

“Did Derek ask the right question?”

“No.”

 _Ugh_.

The two are silent for a moment, Stiles thinking, Morrígan watching him carefully. It’s not incredibly important that Derek didn’t ask the ultimate question, but it is important to note that the prophecy he was given was more of a general one instead of something more specific.

Stiles asks another question to clarify a few points for himself. “Is who I assume to be the prophet in this scenario correct?”

Morrígan’s hair whitens and all the movements in the vicinity come to a halt. Even the dust particles in the rays of sunlight hang suspended in time. When the Phantom Queen speaks their voice echoes throughout the home, sonorous and far reaching, so much so that Stiles can almost feel it in his bones. “That is the correct question.”

Stiles’ face goes slack in surprise. He hadn’t even been going for the correct question just then. In fact, he had one more. It’s obviously not important now, so he nods and steps forward at her command.

Morrígan takes his hands in theirs, speaking matter of fact – which is somehow soothing. “Do not be led astray young spark. The decisions you make in the coming days could determine the events for years to come. Choose wisely and those years will be free of upset. Choose poorly and all you have come to know may fade. And remember, not all must rest in your hands but _your_ hands must put this to rest.”

They cup his face in their now feathered hands and brush a thumb over his cheek gently. When he blinks he’s back outside of the aviary’s front gate – not a single crow or raven in sight – and he’s _extremely_ confused.


	11. The disconnect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd  
> hope you enjoy<3

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Fat droplets of water clink against the metal fire escape outside while clouds roll in like gentle waves, washing over the once blue sky. Everything is dark, uncertain.

Stiles rolls a coaster under his fingertips and across the table, sighing. From the kitchen a loud thud sounds out, then Erica emerges with his batman mug in her hands. It’s her turn to “babysit” while Derek is off at work. The precinct has been pretty busy these past two months.

“What’s going on up there?” Erica asks, flicking the side of his head. She plops down next to him and jostles him from his original position.

The spark narrows his eyes at her hand and turns away, staring out of the window once again. Drops of water trickle down the windowpane, gathering speed as they collided with the surrounding droplets. They collect in warped pools at the bottom of the glass, distorting the world’s colors. Thunder shakes the sky not too far off.

“Nothing,” Stiles finally answers. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He twirls another coaster and watches as it spins around the table, slowing down into an awkward side to side wobble. When it stops completely he lets his legs down from where they were tucked against his chest. “This _thing_ – the monster.”

Erica plops her feet into his newly freed lap and then rests against the edge of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. “Anything new?”

“Not really,” he sighs.

She hums and takes a sip of her drink before setting it off to the side on the coffee table. “You went to Morrígan right?”

He nods once.

“And what did she say?”

He smiles, bitter. “Not to be led astray. That if I fuck up people will die.”

“Well that’s no different then any other day in Beacon Hills,” Erica sneers.

He pokes at her leg, right over a stray beauty mark. “No, it _is_ different. If I mess up someone I **know** will die.”

“Someone you knew already died,” Erica says plainly.

Stiles glares at her. “Thanks.”

She frowns and folds her fingers together. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I was trying to say is: this isn’t any different from what we face all the time. Don’t stress about this just because Morrígan gave you some advice in the form of a so called prophecy.” When he doesn’t look up she jabs him in the stomach with a foot. “You can solve just about anything, Stiles. Don’t let this stump you.”

“We haven’t exactly gone toe to toe with an immortal being before.”

Erica chuckles, resentment dripping from it. “I wouldn’t say that. We’ve faced plenty of things that refused to stay dead.”

He scratches the sole of her foot, causing her to jerk it backwards. “This is different.”

She kicks him in the hip. “How?” Then sits up, resting her hands on her knees. It makes her look smaller than she already seems. “I feel like you think this is a bigger problem than it really is.”

“It _is_ a big problem,” He says, resolute. Anger prickles at his chest, warming it.

The beta frowns. “Then what am I missing here?”

He turns back toward the side table and reaches for yet another coaster. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if you’re giving me attituuuude,” Erica mutters from the side of her mouth.

“Drop it, Erica.”

She raises an eyebrow and kicks him in the hip again. “ **Hey**.”

“What?” he grumbles.

“Don’t be a dick to me just because you’re stressed out. I’m trying to help,” she says, taking the coaster.

He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath as Erica shifts to sit beside him, thinking all the while that he should probably just tell someone. He should just tell Erica what he knows about being the seventh victim. About how he might have to die no matter what happens because killing the thing requires a sacrifice. But when he looks into her fiery eyes, filled to the brim with determination, he decides against it. Sometimes Erica is worse than Derek when she sets her mind to something, and she’s nothing if not protective of Stiles.

Knocking his shoulder against hers he apologizes, “Sorry. I’m so worried about this that I don’t even notice how angry it’s making me half the time.”

Erica pulls his hand into hers and squeezes it. It’s a little forceful, sure, but whatever it’s supposed to accomplish it does because Stiles loosens up. She searches his face, eyebrows drawn and face calculating in a way that reminds him of both Lydia and Boyd, and then she pats the back of his hand. “The Stiles I know doesn’t think about things _this_ hard. He doesn’t dwell any longer than is completely necessary, and he does what needs to be done then calls it a day. No matter what anyone else says.”

His lips curve up at the edges right before she pats his cheek, finishing with, “Now let’s end this fucking pity party. It’s not a good look on you.”

“I’m not pity partying,” he mumbles.

She stands and grabs her cup, backing away to the kitchen. “Yes, you are. And if you don’t quit it I’m gonna slam your ass at Mario Kart again and _give_ you a reason to throw a pity party.”

“Is this your way of comforting people?”

Erica looks over her shoulder and smiles wickedly. “You don’t need to be coddled or comforted right now. At least not by me. What _you_ need is a kick in the ass to get going with your plan.”

~

A plan. Stiles needs a plan. He’s good at those, really good. Except… how does one plan for the unforeseen? He guesses he can control for it with a slew of contingency plans. But something about that screams “more trouble than it’s worth”. He doesn’t really have time for excess planning anyway, which is frightening to say the least. This isn’t exactly something he wants to play fast and loose.

Lydia _did_ give him a pretty solid option though. _Split your soul in two and fight the beast_.

If whatever Stiles is supposed to do works, the beast will explode – at least he thinks it will, hopes it will – and his shredded half of a soul will be set free. If not… Well it’s a good thing he’d have the other half of his soul waiting for him in some bottle.

For lack of time, and better ideas, Stiles chooses Lydia’s method – or Deaton’s? Whoever it belongs to doesn’t matter. He’s going with it. Which is why he’s currently sitting in Deaton’s office tinkering with books and potions, waiting.

The druid walks in after a few minutes, acknowledging his presence with a quick nod. “You have the book.”

Stiles looks back down at where it sits on Deaton’s desk. “I do.”

“And?”

The spark plops down in the chair across from the emissary. “ _And_ , I think you giving me this book messes with the balance, does it not?”

“I didn’t give you the book, Lydia did,” Deaton replies smoothly, smirking.

“Loopholes.”

His smile broadens for a fraction of a second and then it’s gone as Deaton clears his throat. “Have you made a decision?”

Stiles sighs, “What other choice do I have?”

“Many,” Deaton sighs. “But they are all yours to make.”

The spark pushes up his sleeves and sets his forearms on the desk, leaning in to say, “There aren’t _that_ many. And even if there were, there’s only one good one so far.”

Deaton’s lips twitch, as if he’s amused, and he picks up the book. “Very well then. Do you have everything with you?”

“The book, box, and all my blood are here. Mostly.”

The druid nods. “And what is it you came here to do?”

Stiles bares his teeth in a sickly sweet smile that’s about two notches above condescending. “I want you to tell me a little bit about souls and then I want you to help me split mine.”

“You want to split your soul?”

“What else would I be here for with _this_ book and _this_ box Deaton?” Stiles asks pushing off the desk, his back hitting the chair behind him.

The druid raises an eyebrow. “To finish your training.”

Stiles lets out a breathy groan and rolls his eyes. “I know you know I haven’t had time to study for that.”

“I suppose I do.” Deaton hums, faux-thoughtfully. “So, souls is it?”

“Yes.”

The druid taps a finger at his desk and then extends a hand for the book. Stiles presses it into his hand, but doesn’t let go right away. “Deaton, how did you even find this anyway?”

“I studied,” the vet says with a smile. Stiles frowns and relinquishes his hold on the tome. Pages flip before him as Deaton heads straight for the spell. Eying the page, he begins his lecture. “From previous lessons you remember that each culture has separate knowledge of the immaterial aspect of the human or human-like body.”

Deaton always had a funny way of posing questions, i.e. he didn’t.

“That was almost three years ago, but sure.” That lecture on souls was quick and to the point. They’d only discussed souls at all because of Stiles’ need for a familiar.

Deaton looks up briefly. “Then you should know that none of them are wrong.”

Stiles balks at that. “How can all of them be right?”

“They are neither correct nor wrong,” Deaton amends.

The spark wipes a hand over his face. “Can you just explain, please?”

The druid huffs and flips to the back of the page, continuing at his own pace. “A handful of cultures believed in the concept of one soul. Some thought it was separate from the body but relied on it, others believed the body and soul were one, and then a select few believed the soul could wander freely.”

“So… none of those are right? Or wrong?”

Sighing, he sets the book down. “The Egyptians and the Chinese believed in two souls. One mortal that perished when the host died, and one that continued into the after life.”

“Okay…”

“All of those are sound theories,” Deaton says, short. “Though they only tend to work respectively.”

Stiles tilts his head up, almost there but not quite. “ _You’re_ saying that technically you can have a soul that wanders – like familiars – but that doesn’t mean you have two. But, you _can_ have two?”

“Exactly,” Deaton agrees, brushing a hand over the book that lights some of the etchings gold.

“And how does this help me?”

The emissary motions for the box. “You aren’t splitting your soul.”

Stiles draws his eyebrows in. “I’m not?”

“No,” Deaton says, narrowing his eyes. “You have **one**. You’re drawing out the side of it that is mortal and you’re saving it.”

Impatiently, Stiles asks, “How exactly does _that_ work? I mean, you either have two souls or you’re splitting one.”

“Yours is a dual entity, but it is only **one** entity. It functions as one unit but can separate when the time calls for it – much like your familiar does. Your soul is particularly resilient and malleable, the duality of it manifested in Leto.”

“Can I harness that?”

“Had you decided to finish your training, yes,” Deaton answers somewhat bitterly.

Stiles’ face burns red at that. “I’ve been busy.”

Deaton doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s close, a little more refined though. “The spell can work regardless.”

“Can or will?”

“Both.”

His shoulders sag as he lets out an aggravated sigh. “Can isn’t very final.”

Deaton opens the box in front of him and pulls out vials and jars. The box doesn’t really look big enough to hold all of the things he’s pulling out of it. “It will work no matter how your soul behaves. Separating things isn’t the hard part, putting them back together is.”

“Okay, fine, but won’t taking the mortal part kill me?”

“In a manner of speaking,” The druid answers without emotion.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, color draining from his face when he’s faced with a rather large dagger. “What does that mean?”

“Your spark and immortal soul will interact to keep you alive.”

“So am I immortal then? How does any of this work?”

Deaton, having lost most of his patience, merely presses Stiles with a look for a moment. When he finally answers it’s short and to the point – which is new for Deaton. “You won’t die immediately, but the longer your waking soul is separated from you, the weaker you will become.”

“How long would someone have ‘til they died?” Stiles jiggles his leg up and down restlessly. His palms glaze over with sweat.

Pausing in his mixing, the emissary answers, “Three days minimum. One month maximum.”

Stiles’ legs halt long enough for him to wipe his palms against his pants. “And what about me?”

“Your soul is stronger, so you could make it a month. However, the longer you go without it the more likely it is that the reunion of your parts will be unsatisfactory.”

“Leading to death, memory loss, or instability and whatever else,” Stiles adds dryly.

“Indeed.”

Finished with his preparation, Deaton gathers the items from the desk and leads Stiles into the main examination room next door. He sets everything down a table but plucks the dagger back up, twirling it in the light slightly, intrigued by something on it. The sight makes Stiles’ stomach churn with worry.

He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “What happened to the no blood magic rule?”

Deaton looks at him from behind the blade. “This isn’t blood magic in its formal sense.”

“Then what is it?”

The druid places the knife on the tray, motions for Stiles to sit down on the examination table, and goes to grab a brush. Once Stiles is up and ready Deaton turns back from where he’d been hovering over a clay bowl, tincture covered brush in hand. “This is a temporary method of preservation.”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Can I ask you something real quick?”

A nod.

“If there are two parts to every soul, why didn’t I find the immortal halves where the bodies were?” Stiles shucks his shirt off at the order of the emissary.

A moment passes as the druid gathers his thoughts, painting fine lines onto Stiles’ chest. “It’s as I said, not all souls work in the same way. Not all are dual in nature like yours, and not all can wander.”

Stiles scrunches his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“There are _many_ possibilities, Stiles. If their souls were one, both immortal and not, then they could have been consumed all at once. _Or_ they could have been shattered with the abruptness of their deaths. A lighter alternative could be that their souls were weakened so greatly that the immortal bits escaped detection, even from you.”

Deaton moves onto his arms and Stiles fights the urge to wipe his work off. “Now explain this one more time, how will having only half of my soul help. I kind of get it, but,”

“Not half. You’ll have a whole soul, but we’re subtracting the element that makes you mortal so you can keep fighting past your body’s normal limitations.”

Stiles hums. “So not immortal, but more than mortal.”

“Yes,” Deaton says with one final swipe of the brush. “But do not assume you’re incapable of dying. If anything it becomes easier. Your immortal soul could separate from your body at any moment should the situation be inopportune enough to warrant it.”

Stiles shudders as Deaton grabs the dagger again, pressing it to his left bicep, slicing quickly. He gathers the blood in the grooves of the knife and mutters an incantation. When the blood hits the contents of the bowl a small electrical charge swirls around it, meeting in a point to let out a puff of red smoke.

Deaton swirls the tincture covered brush into the contents; his face is grim as he meets Stiles’ eyes. “This next part will hurt.”

The spark chokes out a laugh as he lays down on the examination table. “I’m sure it can’t be as bad as dying.”

“I’m afraid it can,” Deaton states seriously before the world goes dark.

~

Static fills his ears along with the torn apart howls of some far off man. His throat burns as if flames lick against the flesh there and his body feels too hot and too cold all at once. He thinks his eyes are closed. Maybe. He can’t tell what movement means open and which one means closed because no matter what a bright light assaults his senses.

Something sears his skin, drawing it tight over his body, and the world feels as if its shifting, shattering to pieces even. Maybe it is. Stiles doesn’t really have a clue. Pain is the only thing he feels sure of right now, it’s the only thing he _ever_ feels sure about now.

After a moment it occurs to him that the howls might be his own, he is in pain after all. But that doesn’t seem quite right. Whatever the case, his body aches too much to stay fixed on the point for long.

It feels as if the experience drags on for eternity after eternity. And just when he feels as if his body is adjusting to the pain, everything flips up another notch – taking the last of his breath from him. But then it goes dark.

That should be calming, right?

He only feels empty. Like something is off. Something doesn’t feel quite – oh what’s the word? – something doesn’t feel quite right. There’s an itch somewhere he can’t quite scratch. A hole where something should definitely be.

Sadness floods into the cavernous space.

~

“What did you **do**?”

The voice sounds angry. No, not even angry. **Irate**. But, it also sounds worried. And god does that throw Stiles through a loop. What is even going _on_?

Something warm brushes against his head when he doesn’t answer – because he can’t for some reason. It feels too warm against his sensitive skin, but Stiles feels too cold anyway. He tries opening his eyes but the lids blanketing them are far too heavy. The same point stands for his arms. Whoever is touching him seems to sense his discomfort and moves though.

“ _Stiles_.” It’s hushed and stern all at once.

He knows he makes a sound in return, but isn’t a word. His fongue is tar too heavy. Wait, no. His _tongue_ is _far_ too heavy. This talking business is even hard in his head.

Something brushes against his chest, feather light. It tickles of course, and thankfully his body responds appropriately, jerking at the touch. A small blurb of sound escapes him too.

The touch is withdrawn just as the gruff voice returns. “What did you do, Stiles?”

He decides whoever’s talking to him sounds a little uptight. They need a hot bath or a back rub, ASAP.

_Mmm, a backrub sounds nice. My muscles are tight and wound up all the wrong ways._

Mr. Huffy – or at least Stiles assumes that it’s a mister – finally understands that he can’t respond right now. Their touch disappears, but they don’t. Stiles can still feel their warmth radiating out beside him. It makes him feel less tense. In the silence of the room he slides back into whatever depths he’d almost made it out of.

~

Shit it’s bright. Really bright. Bright, bright, bright.

 _Bright doesn’t sound like a real word anymore_.

Stiles shields his face with a hand and lets out a noise of distaste. He leaves his hand far enough from his eyes to examine it. It’s lined with faint marks and a little dark around the edges, as if he’s been burned. A shadow moves in Stiles’ periphery and he moves to catch it, but he moves too fast, so rather then come into focus the image swirls.

“Eugh.” The disdain practically drips off his tongue. He supposes the feeling in his skull is no worse than that of one of his standard college hangovers though, so the whining doesn’t last.

“You’re an idiot.”

Stiles blinks rapidly to clear his vision and then squints through the bright lights. He knows that voice. The figure is Derek. “Nice to see you too.” Stiles scrunches his fingers experimentally and then pushes himself up when he finds that they work fine. A sheet falls from his abdomen, revealing more marks and the fact that he’s in a bed – not Deaton’s veterinary office. A few more moments pass and he figures out its his own, but he has no recollection of how he got here. He _does_ remember what happened prior to the bed though, not that he’s about to tell Derek.

“How long have I been out?” He pats his hands up and down his legs to test their feeling as well. They seem fine.

Derek doesn’t though. His eyes and face are pinched and his whole body looks as if it’s ready to snap into action. “A little over a day.”

“Hmm.” The spark’s stomach growls, he pats at it and the markings covering it. When he finally looks up again Derek is glaring, eyes like embers. For some reason the only response that seems appropriate in the moment is for him to roll his eyes and ask, “What did Deaton say?” He brings his legs up to his chest to rest his arms atop them.

The wolf tracks his every movement carefully. “He said it worked.”

“Anything else?” Stiles wonders as he cracks his thumbs.

“ _Anything else?_ ” Derek bares his elongated teeth. “Do you want to explain what you did to yourself?”

Letting out a long breath, Stiles clarifies, “I meant did Deaton say anything else?”

Derek is unwilling to share for a moment, his arms crossed in aggravation. Eventually, when he realizes that’s getting him nowhere, he relents just a tad to growl out, “He said to see him when you woke up.”

“I’m hungry, so he’s gonna have to wait,” Stiles mumbles, mostly to himself, as he pulls the sheets back.

Derek blocks the doorway before he can pass through it and stares him down. Every bit of him is rigid, his arms, his back, his facial features. It would be so much more effective if Stiles weren’t so close. This near to him Stiles can feel the pulsating anxiety moving through Derek’s veins. This close Stiles can see when Derek’s eyes soften ever so slightly, the wolf looking at him like he’s a thin sheet of ice above a lake that’s about to fracture and give way.

Stiles wishes he could reach out and soothe him, assure him that everything will be okay. That he can breathe. But he can’t. Right now the gap he’d need to bridge is far too wide, and he’d be building with carefully worded lies. He won’t do that to Derek, at least not blatantly. Still, Stiles tries his best to calm Derek anyway, baring his neck in submission, speaking low and soft. “I promised you I would explain when all of this was finished.”

He looks up to meet the other’s eyes and is met with tempered rage, a fire that must be burning Derek from the inside out because Stiles can practically feel the heat radiating off of the wolf. It makes the spark a little sick, he has no right to keep this kind of secret from Derek. Then again, a lot of things aren’t right.

He continues with a little more conviction, more so for his own benefit. “This is part of that. And as your second I need you to trust me. I promise you I’m okay right now – other then the bone gnawing hunger I’m feeling. You don’t have to protect me from anything.”

“What if I don’t trust your judgment.”

It feels a bit like a slap to the face, so he can’t help but be taken aback. It’s completely warranted, but it’s somehow still uncalled for in Stiles’ mind. He just tells himself Derek will understand eventually. _In time_ , he tells himself. _In time_. But to Derek he answers simple and sure, “I’m doing this with or without your approval.”

He doesn’t wait for the alpha to step aside, merely brushes past him and into the bathroom. Suddenly food seems less appealing. A hot shower to numb his skin and quiet his thoughts sounds infinitely better.

And after that, if Derek isn’t here – well that’s just fine. At least he’ll be alive in the end.


	12. Declarations of fear and more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying!

Things Stiles is prepared for when he exits the shower: drying off, some coffee, a visit to Deaton’s, and another death if he’s unlucky. Things he is _not_ prepared for as he walks back into his room: for Derek to be sitting on his bed, waiting.

Stiles groans internally and gives up on the hope that the wolf will leave. “Can I at least get changed before we do this?” He grips his towel a little more tightly and his bare chest begins to chill as beads of water roll down it. The wolf doesn’t move so he continues, “You know – _alone_.”

“I want you to tell me what you did.”

“I told you, not right now,” Stiles says, making his away across the room for some clothes.

A deep angered rumble reverberates off the walls. “I’ll ask Deaton if you don’t tell me.”

“You already did,” Stiles sighs as he turns, pulling a t-shirt over his still damp chest. “And let me guess, he said no and then something about _balance,_ right?”

Derek’s irises are like molten lava bubbling up from beneath the earth, but every other facet of his body screams defeat, _defeat_ , **_defeat_**. “Do you have any idea what it means to be a werewolf’s mate?”

“Not entirely, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t include you ordering me to tell you things.” Stiles quips as he jerks on other pieces of clothing, staring Derek down.

Redder still Derek’s eyes glow, but his voice is utterly wrecked, “It means I can feel things that happen to you. Not a lot, but some of it. I used to confuse the feelings with my own in the beginning.”

Stiles’ movements slow in realization and he stands, but before he can say anything Derek comes back into his space, voice low but commanding of his attention. “So when you’re in extreme pain – _I feel it_.”

He feels the need to nod, to apologize, but he makes himself stand firm. He can’t back down now when he’s made it this far.

Derek places a hand on Stiles’ neck, tracing over some now invisible line, and whispers, “I’m going to ask again because you said three times was a charm. What did you do?”

They’re flush against one another, chest to chest, and Stiles wants nothing more than to give in and _confess_. And _fuck_ would it be easy for him to let Derek soothe all his aches, to let Derek keep him safe. But for **once** , god damn it for _once_ Stiles wants to be the one that keeps Derek safe. Because Derek’s always laying himself on the line for the pack.

Stiles takes a step back and his ass hits the bureau. He curses under his breath and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry that being tied to me hurts you but –”

“That’s not what this is about,” Derek snaps impatiently.

“Whatever this _is_ about, I told you I can’t tell you right now. It would mess everything up.” He shoulders past the wolf in search of shoes and pretends the interaction isn’t twisting his insides into intricate knots.

“You were the one who said to talk instead of walking away,” Derek retorts.

Heaving a sigh Stiles turns back around. “Yeah, and sometimes you need to know when to let a subject go. _You_ taught me that. Look, I – I’m sorry that what I did hurt you, but that hurt you felt is nothing compared to what you might feel if I explain everything, and I can’t tell you right now. So **please** , just let it go.”

Derek grabs his forearm, firm enough to keep him from moving, but not so much that Stiles can’t pull away if he needs to. All he does is search Stiles’ eyes for a few moments, looking for answers, maybe a joke or a lie. Anything. Whatever he finds leaves him looking utterly crushed.

“Don’t do anything you’re going to regret,” he says simply, grip loosening.

Stiles takes Derek’s hand in his and presses his fingers into his palm to massage it. After a moment he looks up and suddenly Derek looks as young as him. Granted they aren’t that far apart, but five years can make all the difference sometimes. Right now Derek looks small – almost vulnerable. It’s not a completely new experience for Stiles, but it’s still odd.

He presses his lips into a thin line and squeezes Derek’s hand before mumbling, “I can feel it too you know. Thought it was a pack thing.” He looks back down at the hand that rests within his. His voice is a whisper now, trembling with his uncertainty. “If I tell you everything I’m afraid I’ll feel everything my words do to you.”

Derek tugs his hand away and his eyebrows rise. Even with the vague bits and pieces he’s been given Stiles can see and feel the moment Derek understands. Stiles’ stomach clenches, ready to heave its contents, but there are none, and his throat closes up.

“Stiles...” It’s so broken.

He reaches forward but Derek’s face morphs into unbridled fury, his eyes like fresh unshed blood, and then he backs away toward the door.

“Derek, please. I’m _sorry_.” Before Stiles can make it to where Derek is heading the door swings shut in his face.

~

This _sucks_.

He and Derek can’t seem to get it right, no matter what. One minute they’re up and they agree. The next second they’re down and crashing. Burning even. Admittedly, Stiles is fanning the flames by creeping around issues and keeping secrets. But can he be blamed?

It’s not like Derek or the pack can do anything in this instance, so why even include them? They’d just end up hurt. And while Stiles seems to be doing just that to Derek, hurting him, he’d rather it be temporary than as permanent as death. (Even though its permanence seems to be relative these days).

On top of all that Stiles has Lydia down his throat. He sits at the shop with his feet propped up on the counter and his phone in his hands. His fingers tap erratically at the screen in an attempt to convey his messages, his thoughts, _whatever_.

In a little over two days another dead body will be on his hands, and there’s nothing but silence on the consumer’s end. Like the thing isn’t even around. Of course that’s not true, because if it were Stiles wouldn’t be explaining why he disappeared for a day.

**LM: What happened? You were MIA.**

_SS: I split my soul – that kind of work takes a lot out of you._

_SS: haha, get it. “takes a lot out of you”_

**LM: …**

**LM: Who took care of you?**

_SS: Derek I think. He was there when I woke up…_

**LM: Oh. Does he know?**

Stiles sighs and scratches the back of his head, typing with one hand.

_SS: Yes and no. He doesn’t know what I did, but I think he knows the why._

**LM: Have you told him the other thing?**

He scoffs and looks around the store, turning to the owl that’s perched in one of the corners on top of a bookcase. “Lydia thinks I can just  _tell_  him.”

A beep interrupts the rest of his thoughts.

**LM: It is that easy, btw.**

He frowns at the phone and hits call. It rings once, and almost twice before Lydia picks up. “I couldn’t just _tell_ him.”

Pots and pans clink in the background of her reply. “Actually, you could have – especially if he knows you’re probably going to be the ‘sacrifice’ Morrígan mentioned. You just refuse to.”

“Lyds he’s already so hurt I –”

“Save it,” she cuts in. “You know he can handle it.”

“Oh okay,” Stiles hums sarcastically. “I’m just supposed to say, ‘hey Derek, I know you care about me and I’m your mate and all, but I literally tore my soul to pieces so I could fight this stupid fucking monster. Oh, and get this, I may or may not make it out of this alive. But we’re cool right?”

The sound of a faucet running breaks through the line before Lydia jumps back in. “Shut _up_ , Stiles. Jesus. You know, you are so _thick_ sometimes. I’m not talking about the damn monster, I’m talking about how you refuse to say the L word to him.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m not avoiding the word.”

“What word?” She asks sweetly, feigning ignorance.

“ _Love_ ,” he answers bitterly

An ah sounds over the line, then the sound of a pan being set down. “So you _can_ say it.”

He scowls at the phone. “ _Yes_. I’ve said it before.”

“Just not to Derek.”

“I – how did we even get on this topic? We were talking about how I split my soul.”

Lydia murmurs something under her breath – as if reading. She comes back to the conversation a few minutes later as if no time has passed. “I think the two are related.”

“They aren’t.”

“That’s a lie.”

He sighs long and loud. “Lydia, can we –”

“What if you do die, Stiles?” She interrupts. “You think he’s going to be happy that neither of you ever said the big ‘I love you’? Because we all know he can’t say it first, he’s emotionally stunted. You, on the other hand, have no excuse.”

Stiles clicks his mouth shut and lets a breath out through his nose. He taps at the table with the hand that isn’t on his phone. “I think he’d be more upset if I admitted it and died before we had a chance to start whatever it is we are.”

The banshee chuckles, as if something about this is _funny_. “I’m just curious. Are – are you lying to me? Or are you actually so hardheaded you believe that?”

He removes the phone from his ear and looks heavenward for answers, and more patience. Eventually he puts it back against his head. “Lyds, when’s the last time someone said ‘I love you’ to him? Do you think about that? How it was probably his family before they passed away, or before they left to a far off country. _Or_ , maybe the last time he heard it, it was a cleverly disguised lie. Maybe _that_ was the last time he heard it.” His knuckles crack under the pressure of his clenched fist.

“All the more reason you should tell him. Don’t you think?”

Stiles runs his teeth over his bottom lip, scraping away at the dead skin. “I don’t want to tell him right before I do something that could kill me.”

Lydia pours something loud into the now bubbling pot. Afterwards her footsteps tap lightly at the hardwood floor of her home. “The way I see it – you’re going to die either way. If everything works out, it’ll only be temporary, if not – then…” He can almost hear her mental shrug. “He’s going to need something to hang on to either way.”

“That could shatter him. It’d be a repeat of before.”

Her footsteps halt suddenly. “You act like you’re already fucking dead. Where’s the Stiles I knew in high school? Annoyingly persistent with plans that extended _years_.” She mutters something and then takes a deep breath. “ _Maybe_ if you pulled your head out of your god damn ass and geared up for this you wouldn’t have to worry about _if_ you’re gonna make it back.”

Stiles means to reply. Really, he does. It’s just that he’s gotten his ass handed to him again for the umpteenth time this week, and for once he doesn’t have a witty comeback, defense, or _anything_.

“Yeah. Call me back when you’re done with whatever _this_ is. I expect you’ll be dropping the mortal part of your soul off later today. I’ll keep it with me wherever I go in case of emergency.”

The phone line goes dead after that.

~

Sleep. Stiles just wants to sleep. Or even rest. Anything involving him, unconsciousness, but him still very much alive. His body is weary, his mind is one more crisis from checking out, and his spark is on the fritz – frantically lighting up his tattoos in random places, fighting to keep him together.

As soon as he gets home from the shop he collapses into his bed and groans. Nothing wrong could happen in this bed right? **_Wrong_**. He ignores the obvious answer and lies to himself. He’s doing a pretty good job lying to everyone else, it’s not that hard to turn that magic onto himself. He tells himself he can sleep easy tonight. It will be okay. Everything will be….

Awful. Everything is dark and his body feels like gum – chewed up, spit out, and near useless. His soul feels like the shoe that got stuck on it, pulling itself away. If only the bond between the two would just… snap. It feels as if cutting the tether would be so much easier, like there’d be some sweet release.

 _No!_ He tells himself. _You fucking hang on. You’re not finished, you **are not** finished here._

All of this because of some dream. Those dreams that once seemed harmless – okay, maybe a little more than harmless, but he never felt like he was actually _dying_ when he woke up. He felt safe, like he’d made it past the challenge. Right now he just feels terrified that everything he’s done thus far will be for nothing. He really does feel useless.

Still, Stiles makes an enormous effort to picture his soul like a fish and his body like a fishing pole, reeling the catch into shore. He’ll live even if it’s only out of spite for this monster that keeps trying to kill him. His method works after about five tries. It doesn’t exactly fix the sorry state his body is in, but he can’t do anything about it right now anyway. At least not with his own hands.

His phone could help him, but it’s on the nightstand. That doesn’t seem too far up until he realizes that his bad arm is the one closest to it. The beast had taken it, yet again, and swung him around into every object in sight until it popped right out of socket - both in the dream _and_ real life. It's somehow both numb and completely on fire at the moment and he'd rather not move it, but he has to. He can’t exactly call upon Leto for help. The nice follow up talk he had with Deaton confirmed that while his familiars _were_ linked to his immortal side they would recognize the rift in his inner balance and stay within him to constantly heal the break and keep him alive – like his spark. Except it was actually a little bit more complicated then that – _Artemis_ was with his immortal side and Apollo with the mortal.

 _Not._ _Important._ Stiles thinks as he focuses himself again. The point is – he’s fucked right now.

He whimpers as the pain catches up with him but rolls his body as best he can to get his phone. He yelps as soon as the weight shifts onto his bad arm and bites back another as he stretches to get the phone. When he makes it back to his starting position he almost cries out in relief. The tears are flowing already.

After he rests for a minute he presses his finger against the home button until the virtual assistant pops up. “Call Derek,” he rasps.

A rather disgruntled alpha growls sleepily from the other side after a few rings. “What is it?”

Stiles laughs darkly and then sucks it back in when the movement jars his arm. His vision goes blotchy as the adrenaline begins to fade and more of his pain comes kicking to the forefront. “S’funny. I thought yo-you could feel it when I was hurt.”

Derek is silent for a moment but then the sound of sheets being moved and clothes being put on cuts across the line. “Where are you?”

Stiles looks down at his arm and chest but quickly lets his head fall back against the pillow, too exhausted to keep it up. “H-home. Kinda –” his lungs jerk into action and a hiccup fills the space where he means to speak. “Kinda need your help with something.”

“Be there in five.”

Stiles blacks out shortly after he realizes someone will be here to save him. Or maybe he hasn’t blacked out. Maybe he’s just hovering over his body trying to get back. He can’t really tell what anything is right now, up or down, red or blue. Whatever the case, he doesn’t come to until he feels someone looming over him. Except it doesn’t register that it’s Derek and he jerks backward – frightened into action – and his whole body bursts to life in wave after wave of pain. He lets out a pitiful moan, body in alight in blinding agony, and slumps back into the bed.

Derek moves swiftly and helps him back into position, drawing out the aches as he helps.

“How’dju get in?” Stiles slurs.

“Your code.”

Stiles tries to focus through the darkness of the room but his body has little energy to help him, too busy keeping itself together. “Didn’t know you had such a – such a good mem’ry.”

“Stop talking,” Derek huffs, just shy of impatient. “Close your eyes.”

“Just turn it on.” If he closes his eyes again he’ll slip.

A noise of dissent escapes the alpha, but he turns on the lamp beside the bed anyway. The next noise after that is livid and a lot louder. His burning gaze would probably feel like something any other day, but as it stands Stiles can’t focus on anything besides than the burning ache in his shoulder and arm.

The wolf lets out a deep breath and hands Stiles the corner of his comforter. “Bite this.”

He complies and looks away for the next part. If he looks or thinks about it too long he’ll vomit. That much he knows. Luckily (and again this is used loosely) Derek doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even warn him. Stiles is grateful since otherwise he would have locked up. Or rather, he would be grateful if he weren’t so busy screaming through the pain.

Labored breaths push in and out of his body, escaping through his clenched teeth in audible scrapes. After a few moments he spits the blanket out. His throat is raw but he still manages to muster up, “Thanks.”

Derek’s movements are jerky and tense as he nods, still standing by the bed. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask any questions, just stands. Stiles doesn’t really know what to do with it, and he doesn’t have enough energy to dwell on it, so he just pats the bed.

“Sit.”

The wolf follows the movement and sits, slowly, eyes never leaving his. He quirks an eyebrow up as if waiting for further word from Stiles, but the spark doesn’t say anything yet. Instead he tucks his sore arm against his chest and hugs it close, scooting into a sitting position with a little help from Derek.

“I think I owe you an explanation,” Stiles says quietly.

Derek looks up from where he’d been staring at Stiles’ shoulder. “You _think_?”

Stiles levers him with a look. “Don’t push it right now. I feel like complete and total shit.”

Derek raises his eyebrows at that and lets out a humorless laugh. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No. I do.”

The alpha shakes his head and stands. “You really don’t. I’ll be in the guest room.”

“I love you,” he blurts out. _Oh great, you’ve done it now Stilinski. No transition or anything._

Derek tenses up, doesn’t even turn around. “What?”

Stiles opens his mouth but it takes a few tries for something to come out, his heart racing in the silent space. “I – I said I love you. Had you not tried to walk away I would have gotten to that a little later and it would’ve sounded nicer.”

He mumbles, “I kinda panicked ‘cause I don’t think I have the energy to make it to the other room right now, and I – I needed, to say it.”

Derek’s fingers move in a waterfall motion, one lifting up after the other only to fall and repeat again. He doesn’t quite look back at Stiles, but his head is at least turned to the side now. “Why?”

“Why did I say it? Or why do I love you?”

Smaller now, “ _Why_?”

The spark looks down at the arm he’s cradling and brings it up more so that he can grasp at the adjacent shoulder. He uses his good arm to peel back the covers and moves to the side of the bed, but before he can get any further Derek turns back toward him. His eyes won’t quite meet Stiles’ though.

Frowning, Stiles pats the bed again. “Please sit down.” The bed dips with the added weight and Stiles continues, looking ahead to where Derek’s eyes are fixed. “The other day – when you felt all that pain – I had done something –”

Derek looks at him then, but only to roll his eyes.

Stiles rolls his right back. “Obviously, I know. Let me finish jerk.” He takes a steadying breath. “I did it to protect myself from… something. It took a lot out of me, and while it has its benefits it didn’t come without costs. Which is why I’m,” he gestures to himself.

“Who would’ve guessed,” Derek says, no hint of mirth in his sarcastic tone.

“Yes, I know this is all obvious to you, but I’ve been avoiding something else, too.”

Derek huffs and looks up for a moment.

Stiles sighs. “I can’t exactly do my dramatic pause because I already said it, but – I love you.”

When the wolf’s shoulders go tense again Stiles continues, albeit nervously. “Look, I’m not gonna get into the sappy bits now so don’t worry. Frankly I’m more focused on getting myself a sling, but I want you to know that I mean it.”

Somehow, this isn’t how Stiles saw his love confession going, especially because of the years worth of tension he felt building between them. Derek’s face is unreadable and the only hint of _anything_ in his eyes is an eerily determined focus, like if he looks away Stiles won’t be there when he looks back. Which, not far off if you ask Stiles.

Don’t ask Stiles.

“You just… said it,” Derek mutters, confused and tired.

Having lost most of his energy again Stiles slouches back into the pillowy recesses of his bed. He lets out a jagged breath and looks up at Derek. “I’ve been meaning to. Between meddling pack mates and deaths in town I moved the date up a bit.”

“How long?”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows and opens his mouth. He thinks better of it for a second and sighs. Then, “I don’t know. A while. Probably even before you told me I was your second.”

Derek nods slowly and turns his head back to the window. “Why now, what changed?”

“I just said what changed.”

“ **No** ,” Derek says, resolute. He shakes his head and looks out of the room. “No, you’re all about timing. Whatever it is – this thing you have planned – that’s why you’re saying this.”

“I’m saying it because I mean it,” Stiles fires back, ruffled once again. “And this _plan_ is all we have right now.”

The wolf turns back to him, his eyes flickering red. “You haven’t even given the rest of the pack a chance to help, Stiles.”

“Because you can’t!”

Surprise flickers across Derek’s face briefly. He closes his eyes and lets out a quick breath, then stands. “You won’t _let_ us.”

Stiles groans and looks to the other side of the bed. “It’s not safe for you. None of you stand a chance.”

“And you do?” Derek asks, dubious.

The spark lolls his head back in the direction of the wolf, weak and exhausted. “Just let me do this for you, Derek… I can do this.”


	13. Infinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to apologize for the hold up. This was the chapter that I wanted to mend the most, and because of that I took a long time thinking about what was unnecessary from the previous version and what I wanted to tweak. The last few chapters should be up relatively soon, but no promises as to when because I've got a lot going on and some other things I'm writing for Halloween.
> 
> Unbeta'd as usual - please enjoy!

_So this is what dying feels like? Like every taste, touch, and scent is colliding all at once. Everything echoing past me, a repeat, one last glimpse of everything I’ve done in a horrifying Technicolor hallucination. One that’s doomed to frizzle and leave me visionless. I’ll be nothing more than a memory._

_These memories would probably be more comforting if my death had been a little more pleasant. I’d be okay with letting go. But right now it just feels like I’m being suffocated in a department store by women trying to sell me the latest cologne. And this is totally anticlimactic, too. Is my death not worth more than glimpses and fragments? I want fireworks, something grandiose. I expected something more… just **more**._

_I feel like I’m burning out like some old light bulb…_

**Earlier that day.**

Derek’s not there when he wakes up, and honestly it’s a little bit of a relief. Stiles doesn’t think he can handle another argument right now – it’d take too much out of him. His body is still weak from last night and he’s pretty much over everything that involves extended effort.

_What happened to the days when you could just sleep in?_

He wishes he _could_ sleep the day away, but instead he drags himself from bed, not even bothering to shower, and pulls on a long sleeve and some of his more comfortable jeans. Today, just like every day preceding since all of this started, is going to be a long one. All because Stiles finally has a plan.

It’s a botched and misshapen plan, but a plan nonetheless. And he’s not talking about the soul-splitting plan – he’s talking about his plan for luring the soul eater away from everyone else in town. While Stiles is tired and damn near out of hope, he’s nothing if not motivated when it comes to winning. He’s a pretty sore loser, and when the stakes are as high as they are right now he’s not afraid to fight a little dirty.

So Stiles grabs his staff, a wooden box from the top shelf of his closet, and a jacket, and then leaves. For once he doesn’t have that ill feeling sitting on his shoulders as soon as he makes it outside. He can actually breathe. He’d love to believe it’s his intuition telling him everything is going to be alright, or maybe even a sign from the universe, but he doesn’t exactly have high expectations for this finale. Regardless, he’s willing to try his best with the little energy he has.

As he drives through town with a mental list he’s had for years, he wards house after house of supernatural being against intruders in a way he hadn’t previously thought to do. He makes them undetectable. Invisible. Each a tiny black hole of information. Its owners can move freely in and out, but their scents, essences, and all other identifying markers are lost to the house until further notice. Physically though, nothing seems amiss.

The best place to hide is in plain sight.

Stiles hopes it works. He also hopes all of them stay indoors for the next few days. He on the other hand is not lucky enough to be an audience member – hasn’t been for ages – so he gears himself up for what may be the fight to end all fights.

The spark hasn’t been such a dangerous mix of terrified and reckless since high school. Somehow it calms him to know he hasn’t changed all that much since then. He’d been willing to sacrifice himself then and he’s willing to do it now. Some things are even easier the second time around.

As night falls, more bits and pieces come together to strengthen Stiles’ plan. He learns that the soul eater isn’t the only thing capable of mimicry. Without the inhibitions of his mortal half, he finds he can do a lot – surprisingly. Of course, as a spark he could technically do anything he put his mind to, but that’s beside the point.

Point is: He has an advantage!

Well, sort of. It’s all relative, as usual. Turns out, the displacement of his mortal parts cut his projected power in half. Emphasis on _projected_. He’s capable of being read as a weaker being, but it doesn’t mean that he is. And this is good news. Seeing as everyone else in town is shielded from the soul eater’s senses he’s the only viable meal left (or so he hopes). This takes him back to the beginning, full circle if you will. He’s alone in the woods, all by himself, sitting in the middle of a patch of trees somewhere out in the preserve, like the good bait he is, within a barrier of mountain ash that’s surrounding what he hopes will be the last battlefield he has to look at for a while.

He knows the barrier won’t even work on the beast, but it’s not a means of defense, it’s a means of protection. Just not for himself. Stiles has no doubt in his mind that Derek will be out patrolling tonight, the eighth night, his black fur caressed by the moon’s gentle touch as he powers through the forest. There’s no way Stiles could entrap, fool, or mislead Derek at this point – the alpha has enough information to piece together any future plans Stiles might’ve come up with – so it’s only a matter of time before he finds Stiles and tries to put a stop to it. Hence the barrier.

By the time Stiles is finished putting everything he can think of into place, he’s exhausted. He plops himself down onto the earth and leans up against a tree, silently apologizing as he borrows some of its energy. He tries not to look at the way it withers beneath his felonious hand.

When that’s settled he twists his staff in his hand and plays at the grooves the runes have left in it. There are a few additions, ones that can be activated on touch alone should his words be taken from him – and if those fail, well that's why he has a larger sharpened metal point embedded in the end.

All he has left to do is wait…

~

To Stiles’ dismay, not much time has passed after his last thoughts when the soul eater strides into the circle, all black flames and anger. Its presence is cloying, making Stiles ill almost immediately. Luckily for Stiles’ sleep deprived mind, the beast doesn’t pretend to be him, or anyone else he knows for that matter. Its power does seem to throb and reach outward though, wisps of it making the hair on Stiles’ skin stand on edge.

“You’re looking a little weak, Stiles. Sure you should be out here all alone?”

The spark sighs and stands from his spot against the tree. He’s getting really tired of big bads being condescending in dark forests with him – it’s all a bit old. He straightens his back, lights his staff in blue flames, and wakes his protection sigils. “Who says I’m alone?”

The thing shakes its sorry excuse for a head and makes what probably should’ve been a tsk-ing sound, instead it comes out as a series of hisses. “I would be able to tell. You know that.”

Stiles jabs his staff into the ground and calls upon as much of his power as he can, grabbing anything and everything around him. He can tell by the way everything brightens that his eyes must burn gold, and judging by the heat at his ribs his tattoos must be as well.

“Fine,” the spark says, "You’ve got me. I’m all alone.”

Another tick of the beast’s head follows as it says, “It wasn’t you I wanted. Shame on you for hiding all those other creatures.” It examines its hand, watching as the pseudo-fingers congeal into a spear like protrusion. It lets out a ragged breath and continues, “Guess I’ll have to catch my last snack a little early.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says with a wicked smile. He extends his staffed hand into the sky and the clouds respond almost instantly, coalescing into a dark and furious mass. “Care to dance one last time?”

The consumer’s jagged teeth emerge from behind slimy lips. “It’ll hardly be our last dance. My essence and your spark will be intimately linked, just like all the others.”

The thought chills Stiles’ insides in one instant and lights a fire in him the next. He can’t help but swing his staff forward first, leaving his thoughts for later. The spiked tip connects with the consumer’s spear-like arm and the fight begins – Stiles still finds room to speak between blocks. “S’a shame some of their humanity didn’t wear off on you.”

A particularly hard blow catches his staff, causing it to creak while sending him skidding backwards through the leaves. Two distinct lines are left in the ground where his feet dragged. The soul eater wastes no time advancing again while answering, “You wouldn’t believe how many corrupted beings I’ve come across.”

Stiles lands a vicious blow to the chest of the beast, causing it to stumble. He hates the way it sounds so calm about this, hates the thick and heavy sound of its voice and the way it clings to his skin. In another twirl of his staff he strikes the thing in the mouth, effectively shutting it up.

“So what, this is all some big public service?”

The beast’s broken edges slither back into place as the sky above rumbles in unease. Then, the wind picks up as the monster snaps a tentacle at Stiles. The spark staves off the hit, but the unearthly chill breeze coming off the beast singes his skin all the same.

“Never said that.” One tentacle turns into two turns into three. All lash at him nonstop.

Stiles takes as deep a breath as he can manage and jabs his staff into the ground forcefully, calling upon the lightning brewing above. It strikes with startling accuracy and flows into the beast’s body. Unfortunately, it’s all for naught as the beast channels it and shoots it back at him. The spark just barely anticipates the maneuver and guides it with the metal end of his staff, sending it back into the sky. The clouds warp and engulf it readily and brighten into a purple blanket.

While Stiles is distracted by this, though only for a fraction of an instant, he’s struck in his side. He rolls quickly and stumbles to his feet, but the damage is already done. He refuses to look down, fearing that bones might be exposed. It certainly feels like it.

“Getting tired are we?” The thing’s tentacles retreat and form spears once again.

Stiles cracks his neck and lets out a harsh breath. He’s been tired since week one. Hell, he’s been nothing but exhausted since Scott was bitten. But none of this has ever stopped him, at least not for long, and he refuses to back down to this thing – no matter how much his brain wants him to give up and lie down.

He looks up and smiles through the pain, dirt smudged along his face, and lies, “Not even a little. But I am getting a little bored. What do you think about finishing this?”

The black flames licking at the beast’s form liven and expand as it lets out a chilling moan, “ _Ohhh_. I thought you’d never ask.”

Suddenly, the soul eater’s arm is barreling towards Stiles like a harpoon. For once Stiles is prepared, he’s had plenty of practice in his dreams after all, so he shuffles to the side and grabs the arm. He then uses it like a whip and slams the beast into the tree.

He doesn’t even care that his hand is burning because the thrill of getting the jump on the beast has him buzzing. “I’ve learned so much from you these past few weeks.” He takes his staff and stabs the beast in the center of its chest, channeling lightning into it once again.

The black tar flesh covering the monster bubbles and hisses as smoke rises from it in toxic plumes. It looks up, weakened, and bares its teeth in a frightening smile one more time before it answers, “And y-yet, you’ve so much more t-to learn.”

With that a piece of the soul eater that had yet to reattach spears through Stiles’ body causing him to stumble forward. It isn’t a fatal blow, but coupled with the earlier hit to his ribs he’s not feeling so hot. He pulls the staff from the thing’s body, but only to catch himself. His free hand can only cover one side of the wound, and regardless of that the blood still flows from the hole steadily.

His vision catches on the branches of the forest and begins to tear at the edges, blurring reality. The push and pull of his body and soul is coming next. He knows that he can’t stop it, but he can at least try to stop this _thing_. Stiles spits out the blood that fills his mouth and tries calling on the lightning above one more time, anything to short circuit the beast like that image showed him.

Too late though.

The soul eater moves fluidly around the energy with little effort, as if it could have done such all along, and then snatches Stiles’ staff from his hand. The spark throws curses left and right, even activates the failsafe in the wood to keep the thing from using his staff against him, but it’s all of no use. None of it works. None of Stiles’ magic _works_.

He’s corralled by the monster like cattle, readied for slaughter. His very own spear is shoved through his abdomen as soon as his back hits the tree, pinning him to it just as he had done to the beast. No matter how tough he wants to be he still gasps and chokes, then screams through the pain. More blood gurgles up into his mouth as he does, but he just spits it at the consumer. “Yo-you think this is gonna kill me?”

He uses some of the last vestiges of his energy to muster up a laugh, but groans almost immediately when it causes his muscles to tear at the point of entry. His eyes roll backward and suddenly he’s both in his body and hovering above it, looking down.

The soul eater shakes its head, somehow conveying its disappointment despite the fact it has no no facial features to do so with. It grinds the spear in deeper and speaks above Stiles’ cries of pain. “This whole time… you never figured it out.”

Stiles tries to gain some leverage to alleviate the pain but his feet slip on the leaves, slick from the blood. “Fig-gure what out?”  He swallows the blood in his mouth this time and tries not to groan and then grabs the staff. His apprehension lasts about two milliseconds before he says fuck it, and channels lightning into the beast again. He’s already dying, what does it matter if it hurts him too?

“My intentions.”

“I think I know,” he grits out.

The monster pushes the current back towards him steadily. “No. You’re close, but you’re forgetting one very important thing.”

“And what’s that?” Stiles fights dirty and hisses out a deterrence spell shortly after he asks, then pushes back twice as hard. His voice is harsh and weak.

“Werewolves and their mates.”

He’s about halfway through saying _What_ when a thought occurs, one that sends an eerie chill zipping down his spine. The Morrígan never _did_ answer his last question that day – whether or not he was the true prophet – but she had said…

The thing keeps going, drawing him out of his mind. “Alphas have particularly strong bonds with their mates, even with a human for a mate emotions can travel the bond.”

It pulls the staff out of Stiles’ abdomen, but before he can suck in a greedy breath of relief the thing stabs him again, causing him to howl in pain. He lets out a pitiful sob when the ache subsides into that awful constant throb his other wounds are emitting and slumps backward. He probably won’t make it much longer; he’s trying but it’s hard.

“But you,” the thing hisses angrily, “You form bonds just as strong as any alpha werewolf can. Combined, your two bonds become a conversation.”

Stiles grabs the staff for leverage and tries to wake himself up enough that he can slur out, “So _what_?”

“Guess who those dreams were really for.” With that the beast stops fighting the push of the electrical current and lets it play across its body. Its teeth gleam in the sickly purple light as it smiles menacingly at Stiles.

The display makes the spark’s already churning stomach upend itself. When he gets himself in order again he wipes his mouth with the back of a shaky hand. Red streaks across it, as well as mystery chunks he assumes are from his internal organs.

“Why him? Wh-why is Derek your mark?” He wonders, half curious – half buying time.

Electricity leaps across peaks growing in the monster’s skin, skipping from place to place only to be eaten up and spit out again. Much to Stiles’ surprise the thing humors him and delves into its thought process saying, “I couldn’t take anything from you. You’re ungrounded, chaotic even. Unpredictable…” It smiles again at that and its blackened tongue slithers outward to lick at lips that aren’t there. “That kind of fuel would only last me about a day. Sure, it’d be nice – like a shot of espresso – but the crash would be just as big as the high.”

It raises a tentacle in threat. “I need a **stable** power source.”

Stiles lets out a choked off moan and grabs at the leaves beneath him, one hand has already dialed Lydia – or at least he hopes he pressed speed dial 1. He also hopes that whoever he managed to call is listening to all of this.

When the spark speaks again his labored breathing slows the sentence. “But – why – why **_him_**?”

“He’s a very strong alpha, has plenty of righteous fury that’s been building over the years. All that and the stable pack makes for one _very_ nice meal,” the thing purrs.

Before Stiles can so much as comment, spit on the soul eater, _anything_ , its tentacle comes down on him in a hard and purposeful slap – knocking him unconscious. Blood pours steadily from the gaping wounds in Stiles’ chest as he watches from above his body, barely hanging on to the tether between it and his soul. If he wasn’t so weak, and if he were in his damn body, he’d wipe that smug, self-satisfied, shit-eating smirk off the beast’s face.

He doesn’t get the chance, the monster slinks back into the trees.

~

Stiles wakes up in a panic on top of a wooden table in his store with a very distinct sting plaguing the left side of his face. He doesn’t even realize he’s screaming until Lydia slaps him a second time. That one _really_ wakes him up. So much so that he can tell everything hurts again. He almost wishes she’d let him… it’s not important now.

Letting out a disgusted huff, Stiles sinks back into the table. He lets his eyes shut, but then hands are on his shoulders shaking him. “ **Stiles**!”

Somehow he replies as he takes in enormous gulps of air. “What? _What_?”

“I had to reconnect your soul,” her voice is raised, as though she thinks he won’t be able to hear her. He can hear just fine though. In fact, everything is _too_ loud – too **much**. His body lights up at the barest hint of anything, sensitive and frail as it is.

None of that stops him from grabbing Lydia to drag her close as soon as he’s cognizant enough. “W-where is he? Where’s Derek, Lyds? I need’ta get to ‘im.” His mouth tastes like iron.

“Isaac is going to get him,” She says, pushing his arm away to wipe off the spot he touched.

Stiles turns to her slowly, though his heart is miles away, racing on and on, faster than anything else in his body. He tests his limbs and tries to keep himself as calm as possible even though he’s seconds away from having a panic attack. The adrenaline keeps it at bay well enough for him to get out, “No. No, Isaac has Scott. If something happens to Isaac, I could n-”

“He’ll be fine!” She spits out angrily.

“ **NO.** I need to go Lydia. I need to get there first.”

He pushes himself up on weak arms only to have them grabbed again. Lydia looks calm, but her voice gives her away. “You need to stay here. You’re still healing – if you do anything stupid while your soul is reconnecting then –”

“I don’t have time for this Lydia,” Stiles hisses impatiently, tearing away from her grasp. “I need to go. **Now**.”

“You’ll die! You have no means of defense!”

Her widened eyes give him pause. He looks down at his skin to find glowing patches, some healed skin. As he looks, he gets an awful idea, one he hates himself for as soon as he decides it’s the one he has to enact. He shakes his head and smiles softly, then looks back up at the banshee. Part of him wonders if she sees this coming.

“Lydia?”

“ _What_?” She snaps.

His eyes burn gold as he says, “I’m sorry.”

Lydia’s eyes widen and then glaze over just before fluttering shut. Stiles catches her instantly and places her on the table as gently as he can manage. He lets out a deep sigh, ignoring the pain it causes him, and kisses the banshee on her forehead.

“I had to…”

He looks over his shoulder and out of a window before making an executive decision. He finds the thread connecting himself to Derek, one that’s intermittent because of his sorry state, and follows it outside of the store. To his relief, no one is outside. He takes a deep breath and prays he doesn’t waste all of his energy and then chants out his teleportation spell.

It’s the lightest he’s felt in days, being torn apart and reformed again just to get to his mate.

~

“ **Derek**!” Stiles leaps between the soul eater and the wolf without a second thought as soon as he arrives. The room is a disaster, chairs and shelves strewn across the floor haphazardly. Isaac is laid out on the floor too, arm bent askew.

 _Déjà vu,_ Stiles thinks.

Behind him, Derek is hardly any better, but he _is_ awake. The soul eater, on the other hand, is perfectly fine. In fact, to Stiles it looks as if the thing has grown. And boy does that make him want to puke again.

Its teeth are longer than ever and now slimy red eyes bore their way through his soul. It growls menacingly at Stiles, voice a static hiss once again. “You just don’t die, do you?”

Stiles laughs nervously, the movement pulling at his reopened wounds, and pushes Derek further behind him. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Derek wriggles from Stiles’ grasp and tries to move to shield him, growling into his ear, “ _What are you doing here?_ ”

The spark swats at the arm that circles his chest. “What do you _think_?”

“We’re a lot alike, you and I,” The monster sighs, effectively ending the argument that barely had a chance to start between the two.

Stiles sneers in the general direction of the beast, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He was hoping he’d have a moment to say something to Derek, something meaningful, and he’d love to say it’ll have to wait – but with his whole soul, he’s not sure how this next part is going to turn out for him.

When he’s ready he squeezes Derek’s hand in his own, trying to convey everything he can’t say aloud, and fires back at the beast, “We’re nothing like each other, you sadistic pile of crap.”

Creeping closer, the consumer speaks in a sharp and cutting tone. “There are two sides to every coin.”

Stiles quiets Derek’s growling with a soothing hand and whispers, “Der, I’m gonna need you to let me go okay?” And he does, slowly as that may be. The spark lets out a tiny sigh of relief and continues, “I also need you to know that I love you. Always have, ever since that night in the pool, and I always will. That’s why I’m about to do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

A fat teardrop rolls down the spark’s cheek as he confesses, turning briefly to lock Derek in place with a minor spell. The wolf’s eyes warp into a pained blue as soon as Stiles does it, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles turns back and rushes forward, tackling the beast.

He channels his fury, his anger, his want to protect and save – all of it, everything he’s felt in the past weeks – and smashes the soul eater’s head into the ground. Instead of letting go to hit or punch, he holds onto the monster, and his body begins to burn a bright white. Turns out he wasn’t supposed to use his magic to destroy the thing, he was supposed to use his essence – the part of him that’s most pure.

The soul eater’s skin begins to boil beneath Stiles’ touch as he pours his heart and soul into the beast, and in return his own flesh burns, tainted by the exchange. This was what was meant by the final picture in the host of cave drawings – the two needed to be inextricably linked in order for the beast to be destroyed.

Derek roars from the sideline, unable to move, “ **STOP!** ”

Stiles looks toward his wolf, towards the broken howls, but he can’t see a thing. Blinded by the light surrounding him, all-consuming. It feels like a scream when he speaks, but in reality it’s hardly a whisper. “I’m so sorry. Take care of the pack, take care of my dad…”

The soul eater tries one last time to overtake Stiles, stabbing him through the center of his chest. Blood pours from the spark’s mouth almost instantly, and while he stutters from the intrusion, it’s only momentary so he forces himself to pour the rest of his spirit into the beast. He can feel the moment his power overtakes the beast, a something that’s almost euphoric, bright and clean, but in the same instant the power of the beast taints him.

However, the mar on his soul doesn’t stop him from raising one of his hands to slam through the soul eater’s chest in the same way it had done to him. If anything it emboldens him. He squeezes whatever it is he finds there until it pops in his grasp, finally contented.

Through it all, his skin burns like a meteor crashing through the Earth’s atmosphere, the energy peeling away at the unsavory parts of him. The room goes spinning after a while and the beast’s flesh melts away and reforms repeatedly, revealing and hiding a blackened human form.

Then, everything stretches and pulls until he and the monster become one. Black meeting white and burning off again, never quite mixing completely, only becoming two halves to a whole. And just like that everything stops, and then the axis shifts. As the room stops spinning Stiles finds it’s no longer a room at all. Derek isn’t here, nor is Isaac.

The soul eater is though – or whatever is left of it.

In the wake of the storm a boy is left, maybe a teenager. He looks frail and out of place against the stark white plain they inhabit. Purgatory? The boy’s eyes flutter open and he smiles. There’s no anger or darkness behind it, only a pure and unadulterated joy. Something like… freedom.

He opens his mouth and whisper, “Merci,” before his skin breaks away piece-by-piece, pixelated almost, and melts into the backdrop.

Stiles looks down at his hands after that. They’re blackened and covered in bubbles from where his skin had burned in the transference. Before he can so much as speculate on anything about the room he’s in or his own state, the white room blinds him, all of his senses. It’s like every taste, touch, and scent he’s ever experienced in life comes together in a terrifying concert.

When he dares to open his eyes again he sees his hands breaking apart into beautiful petals, melting away in some mixed contradiction of too fast and too slow, just like the boy. The light source in the room blinks out when he’s gone and the darkness that’s left seems to go on forever, never ending. A space as vast as the universe itself.


	14. Oscillations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna apologize real quick for making you guys wait a month for this update. I sometimes underestimate how busy I truly am in college.  
> ANYWAYS, this chapter is aptly named Oscillations because of the switch in POV. I tried to make it obvious who was talking/narrating in which bits, but if you have a question lemme know.
> 
> This was unbeta'd, as usual, and I proofread at one in the morning, so I'll come back to tweak again a little bit later, but feel free to point out some errors.
> 
> Love all of you, thanks for reading!!!

The blink of an eye. That’s all it takes to send Derek’s life spiraling out of control. That’s all it ever seems to take with him. It leaves him feeling like he’s always in the wrong place at the wrong time, or he’s not quite quick enough when he’s finally where he needs to be.

Stiles was right in front of him, had been for years, and Derek was inching closer and closer to _something_ with him, and then he was gone before they could start. The wolf tells himself he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not as if Stiles hadn’t hinted at the fact that he would sacrifice himself if given the chance, if there were ever a need, but Derek had been… well, he’d been holding out hope.

Stupid, reckless, beautiful Stiles had given him hope. Every time Stiles so much as laid a gentle hand on Derek he felt pieces of his old self snap back into their rightful place. And then today he’d looked at Derek, reeking of fear and determination – a salty acrid combination – and said he loved him. Derek, of all people. Stiles loves _Derek_.

Loved?

Derek didn’t even get a chance to say it back – didn’t say it the first time Stiles had confessed even though the spark’s heart didn’t waver in the slightest. The thought makes him ill. The thought makes him feel unworthy of such a gift.

When Stiles d– when it happened Derek felt as if all the air in his lungs left. Their bond stretched to the point of no return and then snapped. Derek feels so cold and empty now, as if he’s the one that’s dead. And as if his pain isn’t enough he has nothing to tether himself to, no hope, no love, no _anchor_. He unravels slowly at first, fighting because he knows he should, because that’s what seems right. But then he plummets into the darkness of his oldest instincts, reaching out for the tried and true – anger, isolation.

All that’s left is a swirling pool of upset filled with Stiles’ blood and his own tears. The alpha shift feels bittersweet, a blanket of safety that smothers him as it covers his wounds. He tells himself to give in, that it’s easier this way, easier not to be able to think the way he can when he’s human. But even as a wolf he doesn’t want to look at Stiles when he’s so pale, so devoid of his usual light. He can’t stand to be far from him either though.

The wolf’s soft vespertine fur meets the crimson tainted skin of the spark and neither parts from the other. A low and pitiful howl sounds out in the darkness, breaking the silence.

~

_Stiles’ eyes flutter open slow and steady for the first time in weeks. Everything around him is crystalline and glittering, as if he’s looking through a pane of glass on a bright day where a rainbow of refracted light hangs just within view. Somehow it doesn’t bother his eyes. Something about the area feels - well he can’t quite pin the feeling swirling across his skin, but the closest thing he comes up with is familiarity._

_He does have a name for the feeling he gets when he lifts himself up from where he was laying. Pain. The movement triggers aches he can’t attribute to a previous injury. At least not one he remembers. They seem so out of place, foreign, in stark contrast with the honeyed warmth the surrounding area provides him with._

_As a few more moments pass the perfection of the surrounding area becomes more confusing than the pain. He’s never been somewhere so nice without there being some sort of catch. There’s something he’s forgetting, something at the far reaches of his memory he can’t quite get to – an incident? Whatever it was, it landed him here._

_He sighs and follows his instincts to a house just beyond a hill at the horizon. If there’s anywhere he can get some answers while he waits for his pack to figure out a plan it’s probably there. It’s the only place in sight after all._

~

A howl of sadness slices through Scott’s concentration, a sound that scars him down to his very core. He follows the mournful sound even though it frightens him, makes him feel raw and hollowed out. He has a feeling he knows where it leads.

When he reaches Stiles’ apartment he’s greeted by piercing red eyes, weak yellow ones, and a dark lifeless mass, all in a dim-lit room. His first instinct is to submit and aid, show Derek that he means no harm, but when he sees those blood red eyes turned on his mate all compliant instinct is thrown out the window. His own eyes flash yellow and he can’t help but growl, but then the reason for all of the tension in the room finally hits him – _Stiles_. The lifeless body between the two sets of eyes.

Scott fights the urge to shift. Oddly enough, he feels human again, like he’s having an asthma attack. Stiles used to help him through those, helped him through everything if he’s being honest, and right now that’s not – he’s not…

The beta stumbles back against the door frame and lets out a shocked breath. Stiles is _dead_.

Suddenly the room is thick with the smell of blood, sharpened only by quick zips of electricity. Had he been blocking that information out? Whatever the case, he’s painfully aware of everything in the area now. It sends Scott’s hair standing on end. He swallows the feeling in his throat and pushes aside all the urges bubbling up that tell him to run away, that what he’s about to do is wildly dangerous, and he goes to Isaac’s side.

The low level growl that filled the air previously turns into a harsh and frightened snarl. A warning. The wolf gets closer to Stiles’ limp body, operating on its own instinct to protect. Part of Scott dies all over when he thinks of how Derek must feel, how much it would hurt to lose a mate.

Rather then dwell Scott holds onto his hope, the idea of love, the pack, and keeps as strong a sense of peace traveling the bond between him and his alpha as he can manage, but he also focuses on keeping distance between himself and the wolf in the dining room. All he and Isaac need to do is stay alive and avoid a fight with Derek.

Behind Scott, Isaac lets out a groan and Derek’s hackles raise. The wolf bares his teeth and lets out another cautionary growl, _Don’t come near._ Scott turns his head over his shoulder briefly to check on Isaac and draws out some of his pain. When Isaac seems to settle he lets out a quiet huff of relief. Lydia shouldn’t be that far behind him. He called her as soon as he got to Stiles’ apartment. If there was anyone that could get a handle on the situation right now it was probably her. Usually that’s just because she’s oddly all-knowing, but right now Scott has a feeling it’s more so because she had better grasp of the situation at hand the whole time. How he didn’t notice for so long is a mystery, one he’s severely upset by.

Scott can’t believe how well he’s been kept in the dark. Scratch that, doesn’t _want_ to believe that members of the pack _would_ keep secrets from the each other. **Huge** secrets. His best friend may very well be dead because of them. Instead of letting his anger fill him to the brim he hopes - hopes that there’s something, anything, that can be done to salvage the pieces of their pack that’s now broken to bits.

~

_Stiles looks up at the house in front of him. It’s much larger than he’d originally thought. He guesses there’s a lot to be said about perspective in his life. Behind him, the world that was once bright and cheery is no longer as welcoming. It has dimmed drastically save the places that he goes, as if the light is following him. He doesn’t have an answer for why that is though, so he quickly moves on, albeit cautiously._

_When he reaches the front door of the home he’s relieved to find that it’s unlocked, it even swings open for him readily before he can touch it. The smell of freshly baked goods and the sound of a faint hum carrying through the home immediately floods his senses, filling him with a sense of rightness._

_The familiarity of the scene inside is crushing and he finds himself moving briskly, or rather being pulled around the corner to find –_

_“Mom?”_

_Claudia turns to him, her usual smile in place, and sets a cookie onto a plate beside her. “Oh, baby bear. You’re finally home.”_

_Stiles closes the remaining gap between them, but hesitates at the last moment to touch her, fearing she’ll slip away again. If she’s here then he must be… He closes his eyes briefly and lets out a sigh. This is some sort of afterlife, which means the pack most likely **won’t** be coming to get him._

_As he opens his eyes he finds that his mother’s smile has dimmed and that worry has tarnished her features. “It’s okay. You can hold me. I’m as real as you are here.”_

_His heart stutters – odd that it still had a place here – but he crashes forward into her open arms and envelops her in his own. It’s an old feeling, but somehow a new experience now that he’s taller than her. It still feels like everything he’s ever missed though, every song he’s ever known and enjoyed, every sweet he’s ever tasted. After all these years she’s still better than any sunny day._

_“I missed you so much,” he mumbles into her shoulder._

_A hand rubs over his back and a voice as sweet as honey answers, “I missed you too, kochanie.” She pulls away and rubs a thumb over his cheek, face thoughtful and focused. “But you weren’t supposed to be here yet.”_

_Stiles tilts his head, confusion swimming with the thoughts in his head. “I wasn’t?”_

_Claudia shakes her head. “No, I’m sure of it. I was told you had a lot ahead of you.”_

_He purses his lips for a moment, wondering what the hell that means, and then lets out a quick breath. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what landed me here, but I’m positive it was for a good reason.”_

_His mother frowns and cups his face in her hands, leaning in to press a light kiss to his forehead. “You’re so like your father. Always looking out for others before a thought about yourself.”_

~

She will _never_ deign to say it, but she’d been fooled. Lydia had woken up on the table she’d dragged Stiles onto screaming bloody murder. And murder it was. She knows what a scream like that meant. She knew exactly who it was for, too. All his earthly bonds shattered in an instant, and while theirs wasn’t as spectacularly profound as the one Stiles shared with Derek it still felt like having a little piece of herself twisted and snapped off.

This is what she gets for being friends with a reckless idiot. She has half the mind to wake him up and kill him again for all the trouble he’s causing her, because she _knows_ there’s trouble. She can feel the wrongness in the air. This wasn’t supposed to be the outcome, and until the situation is righted she’s going to feel like someone has a boot to her chest.

The banshee lets out an irritated huff and pulls her hair back into a ponytail before grabbing a few things from the shop, stuffing them in various pockets on her person, and leaving.

As soon as she gets to the door of Stiles’ apartment she steadies herself, readying for the war that most likely awaits her. There’s plenty of growling going on as she tentatively opens the door. Scott and Derek are locked in the world’s most vicious staring contest, each of them on one side of Stiles’ body. Isaac is hardly involved though, heaving labored breaths off to the side.

“Scott.”

The wolf in question darts his eyes toward her for a moment, acknowledging her presence. His eyes snap back to Derek almost immediately as he hisses, “He’s feral. You shouldn’t be standing like that.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “He’s more intimidated by you. You smell like a threat; I smell like a human. Which is a mistake he’ll regret in a minute.”

Scott’s eyes flicker between yellow and his usual rich earthen brown as he looks up at her again. “You knew something about this, didn’t you?”

“Now is hardly the time for a discussion like this,” she says, crossing her arms.

“My best friend is _dead_. Now is exactly the time.”

Lydia pricks her arms with her lengthy nails as she tightens her grip on them. She narrows her eyes but answers in as calm a tone as she can muster. “And he will stay that way if we don’t shut up and focus. You get any more angry and Derek will lose the last bits of humanity and control he has.”

Scott bares his teeth briefly and then closes his eyes, only opening them when they’ve settled on human. “Fine. Got any idea how we’re gonna get him away from Stiles?” Derek growls as soon as Scott mentions the name.

“I’ve got plenty,” the banshee answers coolly as she pulls a sleek metal object from her jacket pocket.

~

_Claudia leads Stiles to the living room of the home and sits on the couch, patting the spot next to her until he sits down. Her face seems even more weary than before, Stiles notes, her smile less and less likely to return, just like the sun outside. The only part of the world they’re in that’s aglow with that bright yellow light now is the room they’re both in. Everything else is dramatically dull by comparison, as if the life’s been drained right out of it._

_“Something is very wrong,” his mother decides, turning toward him with clasped hands._

_Stiles hates to admit it, but he agrees. He’s in a room with his mother right now, the only woman he’s ever loved with his whole heart and soul, and he can’t even enjoy it because something is undoubtedly off. An eerie feeling shoots up his spine, causing the back of his neck to prickle with what he wants to name anticipation. The sensation brings back blurbs of memories, darkness and fear._

_“What do you think it is?” He asks solemnly._

_She looks out the window as fat, heavy raindrops begin to fall. The field outside darkens and withers as each one makes contact. “I’m not sure,” she answers in a far off tone, as if piecing something together. “Do you remember what brought you here, Stiles?”_

_He reaches into his mind and pulls at the door he’s sure the information is behind, but it won’t budge. He can hear whispers of the scene, little bits and pieces, but the big picture eludes him. Frowning, he apologizes, “I’m sorry I – I don’t remember, I_ can’t _remember. Can’t you see how it happened? You said something about me – that I wasn’t supposed to be here.”_

_Thunder rolls ominously overhead just as his mother lets out a sigh. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth before speaking. “Yes and no. I can only see what I am allowed. Certain pieces of the mortal plain.”_

_Stiles lets out a huff and flops back against the couch. Lightning cracks outside and the pains he felt earlier return in full force, causing his breath to catch in his chest. He looks toward the storm just as another flash of lightning pierces through the clouds and another little sliver of a memory comes back to him. A fight. It was a nasty one at that. He used lightning somehow – to fend something off._

_He looks at his mother, though his gaze is still a little distant as he thinks. “Are you supposed to feel… pain here?”_

_Claudia raises her eyebrows at him. “You’re in pain?”_

_He blushes almost instantly, not wanting her to worry anymore than she already is. “I – is that bad?”_

_She gives him a wry smile. “Not weird per se, but not exactly normal either.” And then her faces changes, brightening as her eyes twinkle with something he knows all too well. It’s more refined on her, but it is – undoubtedly – mischief. “I don’t think you’re finished fighting.”_

~

He looks like a statue, pale and smooth with swirls of color spread across his skin, and not in the flattering way. His whole body is woefully blank except for the dried blood that covers the expanse that is his chest. No tattoos or anything. Even the constellation of birthmarks that once dotted him are ghostly in comparison to their former state. The ice around his body looks more like it’s pulling him into the underworld than it looks like it’s saving him.

Erica bites her nails, turned just right so that no one can see that she’s been crying. She _hates_ crying, hates feeling weak. She hates seeing Stiles like this even more though. She hasn’t seen him like this in such a long time, and even then he’d only been close to death, not kissing it so passionately. It’s tough knowing he might not make it back this time.

Wiping the remaining tears from her cheeks she clears her throat. _Stand tall, Erica. You can do this_. She has to be strong for Stiles; she knows he’d want that.

When she turns around and sees Lydia she crosses her arms over her chest defensively, scowling almost immediately. “ _What_? Where’s Deaton?”

Lydia huffs, nonplussed. “In his office, I’m assuming, working on something.”

Erica grinds her teeth together, stiffening when Boyd touches her. She shrugs him off, unable to accept the comfort at the moment, and turns back toward Stiles. “You kept this from all of us.”

“Stiles and I agreed to keep it amongst ourselves.”

She laughs, a bitter and angry sound. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“Well maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought,” Lydia hums all too easily.

Erica fights the preverbal rumble that threatens to escape her, but she loses in the end. Her yellow eyes light up the dull grey room as she turns back towards the banshee to bare her teeth. “Oh, and you knew him better? Who exactly did he knock out?”

Lydia’s jaw tenses and suddenly every facet of her posture has defense written into it. She clasps her hands together and smiles, sickly saccharine. “Me. I think that would make me a pretty good judge of just how much we _didn’t_ expect from him.” She spins on her heel and leaves the room before Erica can think of anything more damaging to say. Not far down the hall a howl sounds out in the silence, low and full of anguish. Soon after there’s thrashing and a pained yelp.

~

_As the storm outside worsens, the light inside the home dwindles until everything is washed out and grey. As the storm worsens, more and more of Stiles’ memory of what brought him here comes back. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously and looks back at his mom. “Do you think I brought it here? Could that thing have followed me somehow?” His next breaths come to him less and less easily._

Amazing, _he thinks in irritation,_ I’m dead and I can still have a panic attack. Only me.

_His mother crouches down beside him and rubs his back, counting aloud for him. After a while she speaks. “It’s possible. You said the two of you had to be linked in order for the monster to be destroyed, right?”_

_Stiles holds onto one of her hands and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, but the soul eater was supposed to be gone. Poof, evaporated or something. It wasn’t supposed to follow me into the afterlife. It’s not even a person, just some dark magical concept – a – a part of the world. It wasn’t an entity! This doesn’t make any sense.”_

_Electricity zaps something outside of their door. His mother holds onto him tightly, reassuring him as best she can with her tight uneven smile. “Well, you’ve always been a magnet for trouble. That much I know.”_

_Stiles laughs at that, the sound startled from him. She always brought out the best in him when she was around. Suddenly the light extends to her again and the world doesn’t seem so bleak. He thinks it really_ is _coming from him now._

_“Mom, do you think you can help me?”_

_She smirks, and that same wily nature running through both their veins colors her face again. “Anything for you, kiddo.”_

_His heart swells as her motherly affection washes over him, an almost tangible feeling. He squeezes her hand back and just as he does the front door crashes open sending burned skeletons of leaves swirling into the room. A dark figure stands, illuminated by the lightning, in the doorway. His mom’s grip on him tightens ever so slightly before she slips her hand from his. Before he can tell her to get back she pulls something from behind her, the object materializing in her grasp as she moves._

~

Boyd watches as Derek smashes against the bars of the cage containing his fury. So far no amount of effort from the others has been able to calm him. The beta can’t say he’s surprised. Derek never mentioned it, but Boyd knows that Stiles was something more than second in command. When Stiles passed he felt the claim to second grow and solidify as something more powerful and deep withered away.

The mere thought of becoming second used to eat away at him. Pushing aside the fact that being second is a huge responsibility, it also meant something had to happen to Stiles. He and Stiles aren’t – weren’t – exactly best friends, but Stiles was second for more reasons than Derek’s love. He was the emissary, the one with a plan, the risk-taker, and that didn’t even begin to cover his role in the pack. Boyd appreciated all of it, he still does. All of that and the balance they achieved over the years was a hard battle to fight.

Right now Boyd feels like he’s swimming in responsibilities. He doesn’t have the answers to any of the questions cropping up, can’t even pretend to, the only thing he knows he can offer up are his ideas and thoughts. But if he inherited second then he must be good for something in Derek’s eyes. He’ll prove his worth.

“Deaton?”

The druid turns. “Yes.”

Boyd stalks closer to his alpha and holds out one of Stiles’ plaid shirts he found in the office. Derek calms considerably in that he stops thrashing about the cage. “Don’t you think he should be close to Stiles?”

Deaton raises an eyebrow and then sighs. “Yes and no. I’ll move them together eventually. Right now I need to work on this.”

Boyd shoves the shirt through the bars quickly and then turns back to Deaton. “Which is?”

“Scrying.”

His eyebrows furrow. “You’re trying to… predict the future?”

The vet sighs again. “No. That’s a common misconception. There are different kind of scrying. Right now I’m trying to locate Stiles’ soul.”

He nods and retreats back to his previous spot, closing the gap between himself and Derek who’d begun to growl again. His full body rumble has strengthened so much that the cage has started to shake again, and Boyd would like to avoid a repeat of earlier. He holds out a hand long enough for Derek to ascertain that he’s a friend and bares his neck before pressing a hand to the wolf. Derek closes his eyes almost immediately at the touch, shuddering and laying down shortly after.

“How long is that going to take?” Boyd huffs.

Deaton doesn’t bother turning around. “We’ll know what our answer is by then end of the day tomorrow at the latest.”

~

_“S **t** i **l** e **s** s **s** s **s.** ” The beast’s voice is a continuous glitch in the plain, as if it’s barely holding on. It certainly looks like it’s been broken and beaten – the black sludge it’s so characteristically composed of now sliding off of a skeletal form._

_Claudia on the other hand has a staff in her hand and a wicked smile on her face, nothing short of determination and fury in her eyes. She twirls the staff in her fingertips before balancing her core. While focused on the soul eater’s movements she speaks to Stiles. “I never got the chance to tell you about magic, where you got your spark.”_

_Her arms begin to glow a weak blue as she turns to him briefly. “You have most of it now, but I was as strong as you once.”_

_“You still are,” he answers immediately, almost adamantly._

_She smiles softly, but the blip of caring vanishes as she turns back to the beast. “You have no right to be here.”_

_It shuffles forward on weak legs, extending its tentacle-like arms. Once again it utters, “ **Stilesss** ,” as if she’d never even addressed it._

_The spark himself steps forward and lets his own arms light up, staring down the beast as he speaks. “Mom, this is either gonna sound really great or extremely dumb, but do you remember that thing we used to do to sneak up on dad to tickle him?”_

_Her fierce demeanor falters briefly, replaced with a wave of nostalgia and love. “I do, but what does that have to do with this thing?”_

_Stiles laughs nervously as the beast gets closer, “Well, I – I think we should use it on this thing. It’s really fast and hard to attack, even when it’s hurt like this. What do you think?”_

_“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” She winks at him and turns back to the beast, aiming her staff toward it. “On your mark.”_

_The spark beams, his light stretching farther and farther still. “Get set.”_

_His mom crouches down, ready to spring, and says, “GO!”_

~

Hours pass by and Deaton has nothing to show for it. The moment the wolves had brought him Stiles he knew something was wrong. Yes, maintaining balance calls for death at certain times, but this wasn’t one of them – at least not yet. He doesn’t exactly know when Stiles’ true expiration date is, but he at least knows it wasn’t supposed to happen now.

The pack wanders in and out of his office as he searches through book after book, each of them hovering and hoping that he’s found something. It’s mildly annoying to say the least, especially with Derek so upset, but he deals with it gracefully. Lucky for him, right after Lydia comes in with a book from her personal collection, the stone he’d been using to scry gleams an unearthly red. As he examines it more closely he notes that it looks like it’s burning from the inside out.

The druid narrows his eyes. “Now that can’t be right.”

A few seconds later the stone begins spinning on some invisible axis rapidly – right above where the vet’s office is located on the map. Deaton lets out a deep breath and returns to his desk for a book he’d picked up a few hours ago. In the hours he’d spent scanning he’d come across one note that seemed to account for the kind of response he was getting from the stone right now, but it didn’t seem possible at the time. It _still_ doesn’t seem possible.

Looking over the stone with added scrutiny, he purses his lips. _If there’s anyone that can defy natural law, it’s Stiles._

~

_If Stiles had known his mother was so incredibly badass when he was a kid he probably would’ve taken her bedtime demands a lot more seriously. He supposes it’s not too late to be in total awe, though the timing may be poor. However, his lack of attention does no harm in the situation and his mother pins the beast against a wall in the kitchen with her staff. Its body begins to flicker even more rapidly in and out of the plain, but somehow it stays, permanently fixed by the staff._

_Claudia is out of breath, looking a tad worse for wear, but an air of happiness still surrounds her as she turns to Stiles and quirks an eyebrow up at him. “Looks like we got it.”_

_The spark clutches his chest, also out of breath and plagued by an inexplicable ache in his chest. He pants out, “How do you do it?”_

_“What?” She wonders, smile waning ever so slightly._

_“Smile. After everything. How do you do it?”_

_She scrunches her lips as if aware of their presence on her face now that he’s mentioned them and when the beast begins to gurgle some sort of curse at them she turns and sends another jolt of power through its body to keep it quiet and in their realm. After she’s sure the soul eater won’t do anything she looks back at Stiles. “Honestly, sometimes you have to fake it ‘til you make it, but right now I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I got to see you.”_

_She takes one step closer to the beast. “But, your time here is almost up. You’ve got work to do, sweet pea.”_

_Stiles let out a harsh breath and fights the tightening in his chest, the crawling feeling all over his skin. “What d-do you mean?”_

_Grabbing ahold of the staff with both hands, his mother’s body lights up in a dim blue hue. “I **mean** we’re sending you back.”_

_“We?” he whispers aloud, unable to take a breath deep enough to speak properly. He kneels on the ground to try and alleviate some of the strain on his body, but it doesn’t work. “M-mom, what’s happening to me?”_

_She pours herself into the consumer, overriding the last bits of it. “You’re going home.”_

_When he realizes what she’s doing he cries out, “No, you’ll disappear!” Eventually he collapses when the pain thickens so much his muscles lock up and betray him._

_“I’ll never be far. We’ll see each other again, I promise you that.”_

_Tears fall from Stiles’ eyes as he looks up at her. He doesn’t want their time together to be over so soon. “I miss you so much mom. Everyday.”_

_She begins to fade at the edges and static fills the spaces between her golden voice. “I miss you too, Stiles, but you have to go back home. It’s okay to let go, you’re gonna do great. And if you’re ever in need of a piece of me, go to the attic of our house. B-behind a stack of my old books underneath a floorboard there’s something I always meant to give y-you. You’ll find answers to some of your questions there.”_

_He tries to look back up at her, but the white light bleeding from spaces in his chest blinds him. He reaches out to her in a vain attempt to save her from his mess. “Mom, please.”_

_She hushes him gently. “I love you, baby bear. Always have and always will. Tell your father he’s done well and that I love him so so much.” With that her blue light focuses on the soul eater, brightening impossibly as her voice rings out one final time. “You and I have unfinished business.”_

_The energy in the room swells causing the space to expand and then collapse in on itself where the beast and his mother were connected. As soon as the two vanish the air assumes its previous light state, Stiles left on the floor in the wake of the fight. He closes his eyes one last time to blink away the tears, but when he tries to open them he can’t. Suddenly everything feels heavy, his eyelids, his heart, the weight on his chest, and then he’s out like a light – lost to sleep again._

~

Stiles wakes up with damp cheeks and a raw throat, scrabbling at the edges of whatever it is he’s in. It feels ice-hot, the way your skin feels after being exposed to something cold for far too long. He feels panicked for some reason and his vision is all wrong, fuzzy and grey like he’s seeing everything through the wrong prescription.

Something – or someone – comes around and holds him down which only serves to panic him further. He fights it, nerves on high alert, and rips his arms away from the intruder, cursing them under his breath. His little spell sends whoever it was crashing backward into surrounding objects in the room.

He rubs his eyes viciously in an effort to clear them up and speaks in as low a tone as he can manage, “I don’t now who you are, but I suggest you leave me alone.” When he realizes his eyes are a lost cause he begins to stand again, but pain shreds through his abdomen. He cries out and falls back into the pool of ice daggers, legs failing him.

Off to the side he hears people rising to their feet. He almost misses the soft whimper that threads in between the background noise, but something about it seems so oddly familiar that he follows it. He closes his eyes and reaches toward its origin mentally. Soon enough a silver string gleams between himself and the cause of the sound. Tense seconds pass and the thread grows stronger and stronger.

The spark’s useless eyes flutter open again. The people in the room have long since gotten up, but they’re more careful now, calm and contained. Stiles closes his eyes again, still on high alert, but before he can call out any more spells he notices strands forming between himself and the other foreign bodies as well. While these threads are coppery and nowhere near as bright as the first, save the upbeat brassy orange one in the corner, he recognizes that they mean something just as important as the silver one.

He lets himself relax a little bit, but speaks again to warn them, “I can’t see you, but if you try anything funny I know at least six different ways to kill you without sight off the top of my head. Given a few more minutes I might even think of a few more.”

And then he hears it, a broken and damaged whisper that stops him in his tracks. “Stiles?” It’s masculine in nature and comes from – Stiles closes his eyes – the silver thread. It fills him with warmth and anxiety all at once, and the conflicting nature of his feelings has him pressing his back up against the ice bucket he’s trapped in. The longer he concentrates on the bond the more memories he’s afforded.

He lets out a shaky gasp and opens his eyes as flickers from however long ago flood his mind. “Derek?”

The tension from the wolf and all the others seems to seep out in that moment of recognition. It helps Stiles to calm himself a little more quickly. He figures his vision will either come back to him in a few minutes, or not at all – either way, he knows that, given the time, he can piece together which copper strand belongs to what person.

The silver strand – Derek – nears him slowly, wary of him, but eventually the wolf touches him and when he does it’s like something is ignited inside of the spark. Stiles lets out a tiny gasp and opens his eyes again, this time surprised to find his vision is less clouded. He can almost make out facial features.

Before he can fully appreciate the development, something bursts through a set of doors and he flinches backward, instinctively warding himself. The wolf beside him lets out a hiss of pain, seared by Stiles’ reactionary spell. As he goes to call out another curse something hits him in the side. If his vision was getting any better, he can’t recognize it now.

He nosedives back into the darkness again, unable to overcome whatever it is they hit him with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this became a lot longer than the original 52k it was? Idk how seeing as I deleted one very big chunk of it. Anyways.... my apologies for the length. Idk what happened there but I hope it's worth it to you guys.


	15. Ouroboros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we near the end of this fanfic, I'd just like to say thanks to everyone reading and offering kind comments. I've never been particularly in love with this fic but knowing that some of you enjoy this makes my day.
> 
> I intend to mix up the last chapter and do some things, some mature adult things, but the ending itself is gonna be kinda open ended because I kind of want to explore this universe even if it's just with a short sequel. Now, that story is not going to be any time soon because I have five others ahead of it, but if you're interested I'll be here.
> 
> This is unbeta'd as always - I will come back to edit later if necessary!

Derek looks down at where Stiles is laid out in the hospital bed and sighs for what feels like the thousandth time. There’s not much else he can do. He has no words for these last few weeks. No way to sum up the emotions that have torn through his body so quickly that he hasn’t even had the chance to process them. Everything feels so jumbled and mixed up inside of him that he wants to lie down and forget the world for a month.

The Sheriff seems to have that part down, having dozed off at the other side of Stiles’ bed. They’ve both been here for quite some time, watching over Stiles while he’s been in a medically induced coma since what everyone else has been calling, “The Incident”. No one will call it anything more or anything less. It’s a miracle they’re willing to acknowledge it at all.

It was far more than just some incident though. The Stiles that Derek had seen back there was nothing like the one they all knew. Deaton was forced to shoot Stiles with a high-grade tranquilizer just to get him to stop causing mayhem. In the aftermath Deaton had explained Stiles’ outburst, said that his magic was newly reformed, said it was his spark trying to protect him, but Stiles had sent Lydia, Scott, and Derek flying into separate corners of the room. His eyes had been an eerie black, and his voice was thick and frightening.

Derek lets out a short huff and looks down at where his hand is intertwined with Stiles’. It’s so pale and fragile against his own, ghostly and bruised. To be honest, Derek feels the same. Breaking a bond as strong as theirs and then reforming it, all within twenty-four hours, took a lot out of him. The rebirth of their connection had almost been as awful as the severance.

The whole experience has Derek’s insides coiled up in a ball. He’s never felt so painfully tied to anything, _anyone_ , before. And feeling their bond return full force, rather than bit by bit as it was made the first time, terrified him. He hadn’t realized just how heavily it weighed on his heart, on his soul.

In the back of his mind he can hear Stiles making a joke about not knowing what you’ve got til it’s gone, but he couldn’t feel its weight then, he was in too much pain. When things come back around – _that’s_ when you realize.

He rubs his free hand over his face and shakes his head. Now that the bond is back he can feel just how fragile Stiles is. It’s such a strong sense of weakness that Derek feels asthmatic. His lungs keep grasping for something that isn’t there. And on top of it all, he’s nervous. He’s so worried that when Stiles wakes up he won’t remember anything, or worse, he’ll remember _everything_.

He closes his eyes to clear them of their redness and presses a kiss to Stiles’ hand to calm himself. Later. He’ll worry about that when the time comes. For now, he convinces himself that the only thing that’s important is the fact that Stiles is alive.

~

Soft mechanical hums and beeps slowly draw Stiles out of his drug induced sleep. The smell of antiseptic and other harsh chemicals comes next, snapping him to attention. After all of this he notices how tight and itchy his skin feels, especially around his chest, but it isn’t until he moves his arm that he notices the IV and heart monitor, as well as some other wires and bandages he doesn’t feel like examining just yet.

The spark rolls his eyes and then decides to catalog his surroundings, hoping to piece together what he did to land himself in the hospital this time. His dad is in a chair to his left, his head resting on the edge of the bed. Across from him Derek is equally asleep, hand reaching towards Stiles.

_Great. They’re gonna be so mad when they wake up._

He lets out a tiny huff and then notices Scott in the back corner, arms crossed over his chest. Despite the obviously late hour, Stiles is willing to bet there’s someone stationed outside. If not someone from the pack, someone from the Sheriff’s department. At this point they might as well be pack too.

Stiles lets his head hit the pillow roughly in frustration. The abrupt movement causes a flash of color to appear behind his eyes, almost like a bolt of lightning, which slots something into place in his mind. He lets out a tiny gasp and covers his mouth with a hand. He had died. He had been dead. Like, _really_ dead, not that half ass hanging on by a thread thing he’d been doing for those last few days.

He lets his hand slide away from his face and looks back down at Derek whose face is a mess of rigid lines. _It’s a miracle he hasn’t woken up yet_ , Stiles thinks. Frankly, he’s kind of glad the wolf hasn’t. He’d like to make it at least ten more minutes before he gets the self-sacrifice lecture. Despite his better judgment, that nagging voice telling him to go back to sleep, he still feels the need to wake Derek. It’s for completely self-less reasons though… The alpha will probably relax a little and get a better night of sleep knowing he’s okay.

 **_Am_ ** _I okay?_

The hell if he knows. Sure, he remembers 90% of what happened now that he’s been up for a little while, but there’s still this small gap in time missing which is a little troubling. He knows something happened there, that he woke up somewhere else before he was here in the hospital. That part of his mind is all fuzzy, like it’s not even his memory to look at.

Shaking that thought, he pulls at the collar of his stiff hospital gown in order to look down at his chest. The darkness of the room conceals any answers he was hoping to find written on his skin, so he lets go of the gown, frowning. Now he _has_ to wake Derek up. If anyone can give Stiles answers it’s probably him – he’d go for Scott but he’d wake up Derek in the process, so he figures he might as well save himself the trouble.

His hand inches forward to Derek’s outstretched one and scoops it up. He squeezes softly, hoping to bring Derek to the surface slowly, but all at once Derek hones in on him. His ruby red eyes startle Stiles for the first time in…. well, ever. That’s the only reason Stiles pulls his hand back so quickly. That and the flashback to his apartment where he’d been stared down by the soul eater when its disgusting red eyes had finally emerged from its slimy black head. He rubs his hands over his face to scrub away the memory and lets out a deep breath. When he uncovers his face again Derek looks like he’s about to break in three different ways.

“Sorry, you caught me off guard,” he says with an apologetic grin.

But Derek doesn’t answer. Derek doesn’t answer because of the tears welling up in his eyes that _Stiles didn’t even notice_. A steady stream begins to fall from one of his eyes, and Stiles can only stare in horror, waiting for him to say something – _anything_. His heartbeat climbs in panic and finally he can’t take the thick, emotional, silence so he jostles Derek. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay, see? All alive.”

He takes Derek’s hand and places it on his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Derek, please say something. If you’re mad I swear I just – I didn’t –”

Before Stiles can finish his sentence Derek rushes forward and wraps his arms around him. The spark lets out a breath of relief and settles against him, digging his fingers into the fabric of the wolf’s shirt before breathing him in. “We’re okay,” he assures Derek (and himself).

“Didn’t think you were coming back.” Derek confesses in such an uncharacteristically small voice that Stiles’ hands freeze in their circular motions.

He buries his face in Derek’s neck and squeezes the wolf a little tighter. He shoots for light-hearted when he says, “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily did you?” but instead it comes out equally uncertain and frail.

Derek pulls back slightly to look at him. “You were dead.”

Stiles brushes a thumb over the man’s cheek as he searches his eyes. “I know – I.” He sighs and looks down. “It’s okay though. I’m back now. M’not doing that again if I can help it.”

Derek leans into the touch and sighs. After taking a moment to bask in whatever it is that’s making him look so content, Derek turns and kisses Stiles’ palm before backing away. It catches him off guard and his body is left thrumming with… _something_. It gives Stiles goosebumps. He wants to pull Derek back in, to kiss him or his hand, but when he sees Scott rise from his chair in the corner he decides that it will have to happen some other time. Soon he hopes.

Scott’s reaction is no better than Derek’s was a few minutes ago and Stiles can’t get the wounded look off of his face soon enough. He squeezes Derek’s hand one last time and then holds out an arm for Scott. His best friend accepts it readily and pulls him closer, hands digging into the flimsy hospital fabric.

“Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows, caught off guard by the angry command in Scott’s voice. Derek hadn’t even sounded this pissed. He pulls his friend back by his hair and looks him in the eyes. “I didn’t mean to. Promise.”

Scott’s shoulders fall instantly and he lets his head fall to Stiles collarbone. “I know,” he sighs right before breathing Stiles’ scent in. “I know. You just – you didn’t tell me anything. You _always_ tell me what you’re going to do, even when you think I’ll hate it. And this time you didn’t and you… you –”

He holds Scott tightly in his arms, almost missing the look that passes over his father’s face. He lets a long breath out into his friend’s hair and says, “I know, Scott. I’m sorry.”

Whatever peace Stiles thought Derek settled into is gone when he looks back up at him. His posture is tight, like touching Stiles hadn’t been enough to confirm everything, and because of this he expects Derek to return to his side once Scott is finished, but instead he taps the beta’s shoulder and tilts his head towards the door.

He’s giving Stiles and his dad time alone. _Great,_ Stiles thinks.

After the two exit, the room is silent and the tension is so thick Stiles feels like he can’t breathe. Or that he shouldn’t. His father breaks the silence first, inhaling for what feels like minutes before letting out a pained sigh. They both open their mouths to speak at the same time, but his father holds up a hand to stop him.

“Listen first.”

Stiles swallows and jerks his head up and down.

The sheriff wipes his hands on his pants and looks up at the ceiling, for strength presumably, before coming back down to face Stiles. “I’m not gonna lecture you, so you can relax. _For now_.”

He wraps his fingers together and nods again.

“Look kid,” his dad begins. “I know I can’t protect you all the time, or maybe even at all for that mater, but this –” he gestures to Stiles in the hospital bed. “Not okay.”

The guilt icing up his veins almost feels worse than the half-healed wounds on his chest. He can’t think of anything to make it right, or to make up for his brash decision, so he just apologizes quietly and adds, “I saw mom…”

The tears fall from his eyes before he can catch them, but luckily his dad is there to catch him before _he_ falls. He kisses Stiles on the forehead and says, “You had me worried sick.”

Hiccupping between breaths, Stiles manages to get out, “I’m sorry dad. M-mom took care of me though. She saved me.”

His dad scrubs a hand through his hair and kisses his head again. “I’m glad someone was there for you.”

Stiles pulls back and wipes his eyes, determined to make it through the next part. He’s almost afraid to say it, worried it will hurt his father more than anything, but he figures his mom told him to say it for a reason, so he takes a deep breath and says it. “Mom told me that she loves you. And she said that you’ve done well.”

In the end he’s glad he says it, even though it makes his father cry.

~

A few more days in the hospital pass with visits from everyone who didn’t get a chance to scold Stiles that first night. All of them are filled with promises of good health and multiple apologies on his end. All except for two.

Lydia walks in, face as cold and hard as the expensive marble in her kitchen. Something about the look makes Stiles feel incredibly unworthy. He doesn’t know where to look first. Down feels right, but he knows she’ll probably want him to face her head on.

Her heels click to his side and she looks him up and down, carefully, before – _owwww_.

Stiles presses a hand to his cheek and readjusts his jaw. He _really_ should’ve seen that coming. Lydia may be half a foot shorter than him, but let it be known that she can hit as hard as any other man, or wolf.

“That was for knocking me out,” She hisses.

He looks up at her after a beat has passed, but before he can get a word in edgewise she has him locked in a motherly embrace. He barely catches her whisper, “And this is because you had me worried sick.”

Lydia backs away before he can respond properly, and when she looks at him there’s no trace of any emotion written on her face, at least not the one her voice carried when she hugged him. He lets out a deep breath and tries to get over the emotional whiplash there and says, “I guess an apology is out of the question?”

“I’d rather you told everyone that this little stunt was mostly your doing,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking a hip out.

“They think you put me up to it?”

She scoffs and flips her hair over her shoulder gracefully. “No. They think I knew about it and then hid it from them.”

Stiles rubs a hand down his face. “Look, I’m sorry Lyds. I didn’t mean for –”

“Save it,” she cuts in. “I’m sure you’ve apologized plenty of times in the last forty-eight hours. I know why you did what you did.”

Of course she did. Lydia always knew. He just nods and twiddles his thumbs in his lap, watching her leave. She turns her head over her shoulder at the last second and asks, “Have you talked to Derek yet?”

He shakes his head. “We haven’t had enough time alone for us to get into it.”

She nods once, lips pursed in disapproval, and then leaves.

~

He feels something strong, something evergreen and – not menacing per se – something solid. The foreign presence in his area sparks his magic and causes it to catch flame, waking him from his nap. When he opens his eyes all he finds is Deaton sitting in a chair at the foot his hospital bed, reading charts, patting out a small flame on one of the sheets.

The druid looks up, amusement and sarcasm twinkling in his chestnut brown eyes. “You really need to work on that.”

Stiles lazily rubs a hand over his eyes. “You set off the magic this time, not me.”

Deaton hums noncommittally, nether agreeing nor disagreeing. “You seem to be healing quite well for a dead man.”

“I’m not dead anymore,” Stiles intones.

Deaton flips the top page of the chart back down and sets the clipboard in its original place. “I’m not convinced you’re fully alive.”

He crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows at the vet, wordlessly prompting him to be a little less vague.

The emissary takes the hint and keeps going. “Your soul is a very intrinsic part of your life. If you were a candle it would be the flame.” He rubs a thumb over his chin as he thinks about what he’s going to say next. “Your soul shouldn’t have been anywhere near your body when you died. In fact, I was almost positive that you had shattered it to pieces when you sacrificed yourself.”

“Maybe it wasn’t as broken as you thought.”

Deaton stands and places his hands on the railing at the end of the bed. “I considered that thought briefly, but even if that _was_ the case it should’ve taken your soul days, if not weeks, to repair itself. Especially considering the force by which your soul had been broken.” He lets go of the edge of the bed and walks to Stiles’ side. “I read something curious while I was scrying for the bits and pieces of your soul. It was a passage from an old tome on the inner essence of beings on Earth. It said there were few beings in this solar system with the ability to repair their souls, even fewer with the ability to produce a whole new one.”

 _God, this is going to give me a **headache**_ , he huffs internally. He’s not ready for a conversation like this one right now, not when he’s on various pain meds and just woke up from a nap. He sighs and says, “Well maybe I actually _did_ have two souls.”

“No.” Deaton dismisses the idea immediately. “We would’ve known when you produced familiars.” The druid narrows his eyes at a point on Stiles’ chest and continues, “You made a whole new soul.”

Stiles groans and lets his head hit the pillow behind him. “How does that make _any_ sense? And how does that have anything to do with how alive I am?” He slaps a hand over his eyes to block out the light from the day.

“Had you come to training –”

He moves his hand and narrows his eyes. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Deaton gives a tiny triumphant tilt of his head and moves on. “Your soul – it isn’t like the old one.”

“Um, duh. It’s a completely new one.”

Deaton pulls up a chair and sits beside him. “No, it isn’t. Did anyone tell you what happened when you first woke up?”

“No, they won’t talk about it,” he says, shrinking backward.

The druid nods. “You attacked us. Your soul, and your magic, didn’t recognize us. It took us to be a threat – just as it did moments ago. _You_ remembered us after a while, but parts of your soul didn’t.”

He lets out a low sigh. “ _Parts_? What does any of that even mean?”

Deaton fixes him with a hard glare so he shuts up. “In order for what I say next to make any sense I need you to answer this question: When you chose the tattoo to ground your magic, why did you pick a tree?”

Stiles looks up at the ceiling to search for the words that had come to him when he’d gone on that “journey”. When he finds them he looks back at Deaton. “I’m rooted with the earth and she speaks through me. I’m one with the trees and kin to the sea.”

A small grin touches Deaton’s lips. “When you told me that I knew that your ties to the earth were the most sound, but that water would play a great role in how your spark worked. What do you make of that?”

“I didn’t realize I would be quizzed on magic right when I came back from the dead. I would’ve studied during my stay in hell if I had known.”

Deaton flashes him another look so he rolls his eyes and answers, “It probably means my spark interacts best with earth or water.”

“More or less, but not what I was looking for. You’re a mutable being, tied to passive elements, however part of you is a grounded certainty – written in stone if you will.”

“Sooo?” Stiles leads him.

“ _So_ , when your body tried to create a new soul it followed a blueprint, the part of you written in stone. When it couldn’t fill in all of the gaps because of the force your life was lost in, it filled in the gaps with things from its surroundings.”

Something about the revelation makes Stiles’ stomach lurch. He scrunches his fingers into the bedding. “That – that doesn’t mean what I think it means… Does it?”

Deaton’s eyes are practically glowing with interest now. “Your body took bits of the soul eater and incorporated them into your soul and spark.”

“Aaaaand it _does_ mean what I thought it meant. As if this wasn’t bad e-fucking-nough already.” He scrunches his eyes shut and wonders if he can will time to turn back with this new spark.

“You’re still you,” Deaton assures him seriously. “It’s only your aura and magic that are going to be different.”

“Yeah,” Stiles snorts. “Now I have the dark and creepy aura of a homicidal ball of black ooze.

The druid lets out an impatient huff. “Were you listening to anything I said earlier?” He grabs Stiles’ hand and flips it so that it’s palm side up. As he’s drawing some sort of invisible symbol on it he says, “At your very core – the part of you that is and always will be the same – you are **good**. Of course, that’s all relative and it doesn’t mean you aren’t capable of bad things, but you are a force of good. The candlestick hasn’t changed, the flame _has_.” Once the symbol is finished it flares to life and Stiles’ spark rises from it. It’s different now, more of an unearthly grey as opposed to its original yellow-white hue.

“But,” Stiles urges him to continue.

“Your magic is a mix between a living and dead entity now,” he says, spinning the black flecked orb of light in Stiles’ palm. “I’m interested to know what your familiars will look like this time around.” Deaton sounds in awe of him, but in more of a science experiment way than out of respect.

Stiles tugs his hand away and pulls his inner light back where it belongs – locked up somewhere inside him. “I think I need a break from magic.”

Deaton presses his hands to his thighs and stands. “As much as I understand, and agree, I also know that you have an enormous amount of catching up to do. I think it’d be in your best interest to ground your magic now rather than later. Your new soul and spark will not behave like your last, it would be best to put them in their place as soon as possible.” With that the druid leaves the room.

~

Stiles is discharged from the hospital after a whopping two and a half weeks, and that doesn’t even cover how long he’d been asleep before those two weeks. Given the length of his stay, he’s had plenty of time to overreact about any number of things. The most damaging: the mate bond between himself and Derek.

Now, Stiles isn’t an idiot (most of the time). He knows that regardless of supernatural bonds and predetermined cosmic paths, the feelings he and Derek share are very real. And it’s not that if said bond was gone those feelings would diminish, because Stiles loves Derek just as much as he always has, if not more. He’s just worried that if it _is_ gone its absence has done something to Derek. Something he might not be able to fix.

Being a werewolf is very different from being a human, no matter how much like a human Derek can be. He is and always will be both man and wolf – and that means he feels things differently than most people. So basically, Stiles panics about their bond for two and half weeks. And rather than do the obvious thing, check and see for himself if they’re still bonded, he avoids it like the plague.

Of course, it’s not really hard. Derek is busy at the station figuring out a way to wrap up the murder cases in a way the town will actually believe, and Stiles’ dad won’t let him out of his sight. Not that he really wants to go anywhere else right now. His apartment is completely out of the question. As soon as he’d gotten within ten feet of his door he’d heaved up the contents of his stomach. Let it be known that reliving the events leading up to your death is almost as painful as the death itself. Stiles makes Scott grab his things after that.

It isn’t until a few days later that Stiles finally works up the courage to see Derek. However, it’s not with the intention to address their bond, but to put his mind at ease. The night that brings him to Derek’s front door is one filled with nightmares. He’s pulled from sleep multiple times by visions of himself and various others dying, as if nothing has changed. Weeks of these dreams has desensitized him enough to be able to fall back asleep, but when he does he has yet another and this one is much less forgiving than the last.

Without getting too far into it, because Stiles would very much rather forget it ever happened, he had been chased by someone and killed again. Except this time, he was the soul eater and a pure white image of himself had killed him. It’s not even necessarily the dream that upends his center of gravity, he can almost deal with the fact that he’s looking at glimpses of the soul eater’s memories, it’s what happens when he looks down at his clammy hands when he wakes. They pulsate with that same black essence that the soul eater had about it and when he moves to touch them together, purely out of habitual curiosity, the ink is absorbed back into his skin rapidly as if frightened.

He jams his hands under his arms and closes his eyes, hoping to every god in existence that he’s seeing things. Sadly, none of them reach out to console him, not that he expected them to. After a few moments of silence he sighs and pulls the covers back, knowing he’ll never make it back to sleep, and then makes his way downstairs. He has every intention of sitting on the couch in the living room and turning on the TV to dull his thoughts, but when he makes it to the last step he keeps walking, gravitating toward the front door and outside altogether.

Following his instincts is the last thing he wants to do right now, he doesn’t even know if he can trust himself yet, but he can’t help the direction he’s being pulled at the moment. He figures anywhere is better than the bed he just woke up from a nightmare in. At least he _hopes_ the place he ends up will be better.

It is, and for whatever reason he’s not surprised when it's Derek’s house that his body brought him to. _Makes sense_ , he thinks. _Find the biggest bad and have it protect you_. But then a dark thought crosses that one. _Or maybe you’re here to kill the biggest bad so you can be even bigger and badder so you won’t be scared anymore._

He mentally smacks the idea and squishes it beneath his feet aggressively. It’ll be a cold day in hell before Stiles ever lays a finger on Derek in a harmful way, he knows that much. With those thoughts settled comfortably he allows himself to go to the front door. However, he doesn’t get the chance to knock, or better yet tuck tail and _run_ , because Derek opens it right as he makes it to the top step of the front porch. Neither of them speak for a moment, too wrapped up in their impromptu staring contest.

Eventually Stiles works up the nerve to ask, “Can I come in?” He rubs at the spot where his IV had been.

Derek nods and moves to the side, closing the door behind Stiles. The spark opens and closes his mouth a few times before settling on, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I ever really apologized to you, at least not for the things I should have apologized for.”

The wolf’s eyes flash red as he clenches his jaw and looks away.

Stiles shoves his hands into the pocket of his sweater. “If it’s any consolation, that’s not what was supposed to happen. I, uh, I had everything planned just so. I had a failsafe for everything I could think of, y’know? I just hadn’t anticipated that when the lore said that thing would need to be overridden by pure magic that I’d be eaten up in the process. At least not in the beginning.”

Derek looks back, but only briefly. He moves on to a different room when the silence extends a few seconds too long, not commenting on Stiles’ explanation. Stiles follows him and forces himself to keep going. “I also didn’t know that the whole time the monster was really after you.”

That catches his attention. He turns around and raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” His voice is rough and sandpapery from the disuse brought on by by sleep.

Stiles runs a hand over his chest when a few key points light up in pain again. He clenches his fingers in the fabric. “Our bond – it was so powerful that I ended up taking the prophetic dreams from you. _You_ were the mark, not me. Somehow I missed that, even after everything Morrígan said to me.”

Derek tightens his grip around the doorframe he’s under and lets out a deep sigh before saying, “You were my anchor,” as if that’s a reasonable response to what Stiles just said.

A myriad of thoughts zip through Stiles’ mind, but the one that makes it out is, “I’m not anymore?”

“You are.”

Stiles doesn’t know if that’s good or bad for Derek. For him it’s a beacon of hope. He takes a step closer, carefully choosing his next thought. “Are we still… connected?”

The alpha’s nostrils flare as he closes his eyes and Stiles almost misses him nod. Relief is quick to flood from his every pore, but then the previous sentence catches up with him. He was Derek’s anchor. He was Derek’s anchor _and he **died**._

“Oh my god. You – went feral. Didn’t you?”

He turns back around and walks through the doorway. “I’ve _never_ been so attached to someone.”

“I’m so sorry, Derek,” Stiles whispers.

Derek shakes his head and turns back toward him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for Stiles. I –” he huffs and steps closer. “I’m glad that it’s you. And I’m not upset or angry for once, I’m just _tired_.”

Stiles nods, a small and shy movement. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just had a bad dream and coming here seemed –”

Derek’s lips are on his before he can say anything else. His mouth is hot like the summer sun and gone in an instant, just long enough for Derek to say, “That’s not what I meant.” He brings his hands to Stiles’ face and kisses him again, slowly. “I don’t mind that you’re here or even that it’s three in the morning.”

“Good,” Stiles replies weakly. “Because I don’t know what to do anymore and I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

He wraps Stiles in his arms and holds him close, kissing the side of his head. “You can always stay here.”

He nods, tears building up in his eyes. He closes them and buries his face in Derek’s neck, confessing breathlessly, “I’m scared.”

Derek’s grip on him tightens. “I’ll keep you safe tonight.” Stiles looks up with every intention of asking Derek who’s going to keep _him_ safe, but Derek kisses him again – soft and sweet – and says, “I love you.”

The, “I love you too,” is startled out of Stiles. He honestly doesn’t know what he did to be worthy of Derek’s love but he doesn’t ruin the moment with his confusion and worry. Instead he rests his head against Derek’s shoulder and says, “Don’t let me go okay?”

“I won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ouroboros](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ouroboros) is this cool snake/serpent that symbolizes rebirth and recreation as well as cycles and returns.


	16. Change, a fickle thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy SHIT, this bad boy is a lot longer than I meant to edit it to be. Again, I hope it's worth it to you guys. This end is my holiday present to you because I honestly had so many different ideas that it's a miracle I settled on anything.
> 
> As always, this is unbeta'd. I'm sure there are some mistakes toward the end but I just wanted to get this out to you guys since you've been waiting oh so patiently for a MONTH. I promise to go back and edit mistakes I find though because typos hurt me. Fair warning, this chapter is 8.5k and since I've read it about 50+ times it doesn't feel that long to me but it is for some!
> 
> Edit (added Dec. 23rd in the afternoon): Please please PLEASE, leave comments. This is the first giant monster I've ever written (and rewritten), so I'd appreciate it greatly!

“Do I feel different?”

Derek looks up from where he was concentrating on making breakfast. “Uh – what?”

Stiles shifts his position on the counter, bringing a foot up so that he can wrap his arms around his leg. He probably should’ve prefaced the question or given Derek some warning, but the thought has been nagging at him for so long it just spilled out. He couldn’t even sleep last night because of it, too busy wondering if everyone else could tell he’s tainted. _Scarred_. Well – that and the fact that he’d been too afraid to fall back asleep for fear of having another nightmare that would set off his spark since he’d been laying with Derek. He’s trying to avoid going black ooze monster in Derek’s presence at all if he can control it.

He clears his throat and tries again, “Do I feel different? Y’know in our bond. Do I – do I feel bad to you?” His gaze doesn’t quite meet Derek’s.

Sighing, Derek takes the pancakes off the griddle and sets them on a plate. He turns the burner off next and comes to Stiles’ side, frowning all the while. “Is this about what Deaton told you?”

He rolls his eyes and tries not to laugh bitterly. “What else would it be about? And don’t deflect, okay. I’m just curious.”

Truth be told, it actually isn’t as simple as that (big surprise there). Stiles’ mind is racing a million miles a minute and he doesn’t know what to do about much of anything right now. Again, the need to know about – about his _issue_ has been a constant itch at the base of his skull for a few days. He can deal with being an amalgam of good and bad, really, he came to grips with being morally grey some time in high school. Stiles can even handle seeing the awful things his worse half has done in all his dreams given enough time. However, the thought of Derek picking up on that negativity in him has Stiles feeling sick to his stomach. Derek doesn’t deserve to be bound to someone – some _thing_ – like that.

“Stiles you,” Derek sighs and rests his hands on the counter on either side of him. “You’re still good.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Don’t do that. Just – I need you to tell me. I –” Stiles lets his leg fall back down, allowing himself room to take the deep breath he needs. “I want you to be honest and tell me what you feel. And not just because you think it’s eating me up inside or something, I want to know if this is bothering you. I want to know if I’m different now or if – if I’m just making it up because of something I’ve heard.”

Derek clenches his jaw, leaning back for a moment. Eventually he lets out a sigh, conceding, and backs away from Stiles entirely to give him space. “You feel different.”

Somehow, despite knowing this deep down, the admission cuts him. Stiles closes his eyes and makes a move to slip from the counter, and the room entirely (maybe even the house), but Derek catches him and keeps him from leaving. When Stiles won’t look at him he places a hand on each of Stiles’ cheeks and brushes a thumb across the tops of them. When Stiles finally opens his eyes again Derek continues with, “It’s hard to explain, but it’s not bad.”

He rolls his eyes and lets out a huff.

“I mean it,” Derek responds in a gruff tone. “You’d be able to feel if I was uncomfortable, right?” He waits until Stiles nods to continue. “So trust me when I say that you still feel like you. There’s just a few things that have been rearranged.”

He bites his lip to hold back his immediate response – that all of what Derek is saying is beautifully wrapped lie to make him feel better– and lets a short breath out of his nose. When he looks up into Derek’s eyes there’s a cool and collected softness there. It’s not a completely open gaze, and Stiles can sense some of the residual hurt there, but he also knows Derek’s telling the truth.

“What happens if I start to not feel like me at all? Not even a rearranged version.”

The wolf considers the issue for a few silent moments, then, “I’ll follow the line back to you, the real you, and you should do the same.”

He rests his head on Derek’s chest as he’s pulled in for a hug and mumbles, “What if it’s not that easy?”

“It won’t be,” Derek sighs. “But you have people that can help you. That _want_ to help you.”

A pang of guilt rushes through Stiles’ veins and he buries his head in the crease between Derek’s neck and shoulder. He digs his fingers into Derek’s back and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

He feels Derek move, but he doesn’t look up to see whatever emotion is there on the wolf’s face, not when he can sense it clear as day through their bond as if it’s his own feeling. Derek holds him a little tighter and whispers, “Let us in.”

That’s rich coming from Derek, but Stiles doesn’t push it, doesn’t have the energy to push it. He _wants_ to say, “What if letting you in gets you hurt again?” but instead he says, “I need time.”

~

Stiles follows the line back to himself slowly. Very slowly. It takes him a few weeks just to get back into working at the shop, and even then he only works as a cashier, sometimes stocks the store when needed. He refuses to get into commissions for wards and spells, much to Lydia’s dismay. It’s too much and he doesn’t feel confident enough in his control to risk it.

The reasons for his borderline lethargic pace range far and wide, but most of them link back to the weird flashbacks he keeps having. They’re almost a daily occurrence now. His concentration was bad enough to begin with, but now it’s as if he can hardly make it an hour without seeing things. What’s worse is that none of the visions are his to be had. All of them are foreign memories interfering with his day to day life. And things only deteriorate as time passes, so much so that those around him start to notice and he’s sent spiraling into a pit of insecurity again. Always unsure of himself and his worth.

But true to his word Derek is there for him, there to pull Stiles out of his thoughts that keep swimming round and round. Part of Stiles would rather drown in them, save everyone the trouble, and that’s the part that manifests itself so strongly when Derek forces him into the car to go to Deaton’s. Not the part of him that wants to move on.

“I hate you,” Stiles hisses as he sinks back into his seat.

Derek sighs, obviously tired but somehow not tired of Stiles. Yet. “It’s for your own good. You wouldn’t go when Lydia told you.”

“Because I’m not _ready_.” At least not for what Lydia wants him to go to Deaton’s for – emissary business. He’s not fit to be anyone’s anything right now, let alone an emissary.

“It’s been two and a half months Stiles,” Derek replies quietly. “You have nightmares almost every night you stay over, and your control is getting –” The rest of the sentence never comes.

Stiles clenches his jaw and crosses his arms. “Just say it. I can take it. Say that I have no control. I know it’s non-existent, practically gone forever. I know I’m an awful emissary-to-be and th–”

“ **Stop**.”

Derek slows down and pulls over. His hands clench around the steering wheel in an even stress induced tempo. Other then the creak of the leather, the two of them sit in silence for minutes, neither willing to break it. Old Stiles would have had no trouble filling the empty space. New Stiles on the other hand…

“Stop,” the wolf whispers again. “I know this is hard for you. I can feel it.”

Stiles flinches. He knows his feelings travel, and even without the bond Derek would know to some degree, but he forgets just how much Derek can feel. Because Derek pays attention. He _could_ block it out if he wanted to, Stiles does when the feelings get to be too much, but Derek won’t because he cares. He won’t because he’d never know how Stiles was feeling otherwise; Stiles hasn’t told him the whole truth about that in a while.

Derek continues when their silence has dragged on too far again. “You’re not as broken as you think, Stiles. You’ve got all the parts, but you won’t allow yourself to put them back together because you’re afraid of what you’ll look like when you do.”

By the time Stiles looks up Derek is already looking away and they’ve pulled onto the road again. Stiles isn’t sure what to say to that. He doesn’t even know if he agrees. He’s _been_ piecing himself back together. It’s not what he’ll look like in the end that’s so frightening (though that is pretty scary). It’s all the scrapes and cuts he’s gathering while sorting through the shards of his former self that really get to him. It’s facing himself along the way and figuring out if he even _wants_ to keep the pieces he’s been left with.

After a few minutes of tense stillness Stiles finally says, “Is that so bad? To be afraid of who – what you are?”

“No,” Derek responds evenly. “But at some point you have to pick up the pieces anyway. You taught me that.”

Stiles offers up an annoyed huff in response and rests his head in his hand before looking out the window. He doesn’t stop looking until he’s home again.

~

About two weeks ago Stiles decided his old apartment was a lost cause. Every time he tried to step foot inside of it he either became sick to his stomach or his spark did something he didn’t order it to do. So, now that he and Scott have packed and moved the rest of his personal effects, his dad’s house is home again. But sometimes even being in his old house is an issue, which leads him to spending sleepless nights at Derek’s place – very rarely in the same bed with him. However, more often than not he finds himself at home in his own childhood bed.

And that’s where he is right now, in his old twin bed staring off into space, staring at the ceiling picking out faces and shapes where he can, connecting the dots into something bigger when he can’t.  For once, there’s no real pressure for him to do anything else, and that’s **great** , but something Deaton said earlier keeps nagging at him like a fly. No matter how much he tries to relax or how much shooing he does the stray voice just won’t go away.

 _You need to plant your roots again_.

He rubs a hand over his face and looks over at the clock beside his bed. _3:51 p.m._ He’s been here since Derek dropped him off a few hours ago to decompress and that same thought has run through his head at least thirty times.

 _Find something to ground yourself with_.

A low groan escapes him as he rolls over to hide his face in a pillow. “I have no idea what any of this _means_.”

 _Something old and comforting_.

He opens his eyes and peeks out from the pillow, muttering aloud to himself, “Something old. Something… _old_. Hm.” As soon as the thought is fully formed he’s up and off his bed. He could be completely wrong, but if he is that’s okay because he’ll still have found something comforting.

 _If_ he finds it.

If he _lets_ himself find it.

Stiles sits in the attic of his childhood home for about an hour deciding whether or not he wants to look at whatever it is his mother left him. He doesn’t even know if anything will be there. A small part of him is terrified that everything his mother said to him in the “afterlife” was actually nothing more than a dream he made up.

Despite that, he’s already gone so far as to move a stack of books to get to the place he thinks he needs to be, but his hand trembles every time he gets close to the secret she’s left him. Briefly, he wonders if there’s a ward in place, or if he’s overreacting. After a few seconds he laughs one idea off because wards set by someone die when they do.

Speaking of which…

“ ** _SHIT!_** ” Stiles jams his fingers into his hair and lets out a small pitiful sound. “I’m gonna have to redo every single ward I’ve ever set. Ohhh and Ms. Welbourn must’ve been pissed about that spell.”

The spark heaves a long and drawn out sigh before looking back down at the wooden board. He can do this right? It’s just a wooden board, and if nothing is there then the world won’t end.

Soooo. Why is it so hard for him to move it?

Probably because he’s terrified by the future outcomes of everything now, and this is no exception. Even as simple a task as it seems. And of course it’s oh so easy for his mind to wander to everything else he’s afraid of nowadays. How he doesn’t want to be tainted by the soul eater, how he doesn’t want to endanger his pack mates. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next anymore and every bit of the anticipation is tainted by his rampant anxiety.  The uncertainty of it all has been hanging over him like a storm cloud, crippling him to the point of inaction in almost every aspect of his life.

Despite (and possibly because of) his mixed feelings towards moving on, he wishes Derek were here to make him do this. This simple little thing. Pulling up a dusty board. But, as loathe as Stiles is to admit it, he recognizes the good in him doing this, and other things, on his own. **He** has to move on. Has to do this by himself, for himself. Has to want it for himself.

The spark takes a deep and steadying breath, then grips the edge of the board. The tremor in his hand spreads and grows into a full body shake. Still, he works through it and pulls up the plank. When he does he’s met with a rush of dust, causing him to cough. He waves his hand through the film until all of it subsides.  Hidden behind that wave of dust, and beneath a thin layer of cobwebs, is a brown rectangular case. Letting out a small huff, he reaches into the darkness to grab the case. Goosebumps cascade across his skin as he comes in contact with it.

He must sit and stare for a while because the next time he looks up the sun outside has shifted enough to make the attic seem dim and grey. Dust particles dance about in the only remaining sliver of light, urging him to keep going.

When he finally opens the case he finds a long intricate metal staff with elaborate, if not ornate, swirls and bends carved into it. At the head a large piece of fluorite is embedded, surrounded by small marbled fixtures of what Stiles guesses is jasper. Upon further examination, he realizes it’s the one his mother had used in the dream. Or the other side. Whatever the case, it all feels like a dream looking back.

A rough cord hangs along the end of the staff with a folded piece of paper attached to it. Stiles smiles faintly. “My answers.”

He unwraps the rope and takes the pages, pausing to brush off more dust before reading the following passage:

_My dearest baby bear,_

_I’m writing to you as you lay here in my lap. You are so small and yet so full of light. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably found out about your spark. If you haven’t then I recommend you take a trip to Dr. Deaton’s, he’ll be able to explain. However, I’m almost certain you’ll have found out about your power if you’ve made it this far._

_When your father and I conceived you I knew that I’d pass my spark to you. Magic doesn’t always work that way, sometimes only one member of a family has it and then it’s gone forever, but you were destined for it since the moment you began to grow. I can’t tell you why, or what you’ll need it for, but if you’re getting it at all then it’s for good reason. Magic doesn’t move without reason._

_You’ve already demonstrated your abilities on numerous occasions. You probably won’t remember when you’re reading this, but just yesterday you thought you’d help me with the dishes. Let’s just say your ability to call upon water and bend it to your will was rather unexpected._

_But, I suppose you aren’t here for stories about your past, you’re here for answers to questions concerning your future, right? I’m sorry to say baby bear, but I might not have all of them. Here it goes anyway._

_Your name is Przemysław Stilinski. You have the spark of a phoenix nestled close to your heart, and it will protect you far beyond what you could ever imagine. While you have the strength and power of the firebird I hope with all my heart that you will never see the day that you should need it, but it will always be there for you. However, because of the firebird’s fickle nature, sometimes your spark will confound you, fight against you, and it may even seem to disappear, but again I promise you it will always return._

_Much like this spark, I pass my staff to you. It may have belonged to me once, but I feel as if I made it with you in mind. I’m afraid I might not always be here to help, and if that’s the case I’m glad I made this for you. You’ll find fluorite and jasper embedded in the staff’s hilt. Jasper will balance your energies, should they ever go awry, and fluorite will bring order to you on physical and emotional levels. Last, the staff is a metal alloy that will connect you even more deeply with the Earth and dimensions beyond. Keep it close and use it as you please, if you have a need for it at all. Just know that while you are in possession of this I will always be with you. My magic may fade when I die, but my heart and soul will live on through you._

_You’re waking up now, so I think it’s best I wrapped this up. Make sure you listen to your father, and let him help. And always always remember that you are loved and that you are strong. You’re gonna do just fine, Stiles. I know it._

_With love,  
Mom_

Stiles tries to fight the sob that wracks his body, but it’s a futile attempt. A tear hits the last page and disperses, mingling with the words. He dabs it away sloppily and folds the note before holding it to his chest. Everything hurts. He almost wishes he had stayed with his mom; wishes she was here to soothe the phantom aches that cling to his bones in the way that only she could.

 He leans back against a support beam and cries for a while, feeling unsettled and incredibly lost as per usual. The stains on his cheeks grow bigger by the minute until he wipes them away with the back of his arm and forces himself to move on. If not for himself then because she would want him to. He takes one last look at the folded note and sighs before putting it in his breast pocket.

After all is said and done he climbs back down the attic stairs, rests the staff on his bed – content to address the issue of whether or not this is the item in question later, and then goes down to the first floor. When he gets to the living room he finds his dad sitting on his couch with a pensive look on his face.

Much to Stiles’ relief he doesn’t mention his tear reddened eyes and only asks, “You doing okay? You’ve been pretty quiet.”

He opens his mouth to spit out some sort of perfunctory ‘fine’ but it dies on his tongue. Instead he lets out a watery sigh, frowns, and shakes his head. Before his dad can get out a reply Stiles sits down next to him and rests his head on his shoulder. It’s settling in a way that he was hoping for, but in other ways it’s still not enough.

The sheriff wraps an arm around his shoulders and drags him in. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Stiles shrugs and breathes out, “I’m not sure what to say.”

His dad gives a knowing nod. “Is that because there’s too many places to start or because you haven’t thought about it?”

“Too many places to start.”

He’s answered with a quick hum and then, “What’s bothering you the most?”

Stiles snorts. There are plenty of things bothering him right now and some of them are on equal levels, unable to be ranked. Others are just plain obvious and he doesn’t need or want to address them, so he says, “Life.”

The sheriff squeezes him. “That’ll happen sometimes.”

“When does it stop happening. Stop bothering you?” He’s not really asking, but the words fall out nonetheless.

Of course, parents have no problem answering rhetorical questions, which is why his father says, “Either when it’s time or when you stop letting it bother you and move on to a point where it doesn’t.”

Stiles nods once.

“So, is this a situation you have to handle, or will it fix itself with time?”

That feels like the million-dollar question. He’s had plenty of time to figure it out, though he hasn’t used it wisely, but it still feels like the answer is, “Both? I think it’s a little bit of both.”

John moves his hand and scrubs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. It pulls Stiles back in time, but for once it’s not to an unpleasant memory. He’s reminded of warm nights in the summer in his father’s lap, of fireflies, and cool breezes that were few and far between. The memory fades, too quickly, into the background as his father moves his hand away and gives him one last piece of advice. “The way I see it you have two options. You can either give it more time and _then_ fix it, _or_ you can work on it now.”

He urges Stiles to look up at him with a gentle nudge. “But you never really struck me as the kind of person to wait around for things to get better on their own.”

And isn’t that true. He hasn’t backed down from a challenge before, even against the better judgment of others _and_ himself. So why should this be any different? He has about ten answers as to why it is _completely_ different, but for once he doesn’t argue with himself. He allows himself the moment of peace.

“I’m not,” he answers, head-butting his dad in the shoulder before resting his head against it again.

~

Stiles hangs upside down off the edge of his bed staring at a stack of books he had gathered back when he actively participated in his emissary training. He misses it, oddly enough, in much the same way kids tend to feel towards the end of the summer when they miss their classmates and some semblance of structure.

He’s been in an odd period of stasis for the past few weeks, walking around like he actually _was_ dead, not allowing himself near anyone for too long lest he slip into the void again and pose a threat to them. A bright surge of anger and indignation washes over him, both caused by none other then himself. He feels robbed of time, sees how much of it he’s wasted, but he’s been gridlocked in an intense battle with himself. Forever indecisive.

Just as quickly as the irritation flared, the feeling is gone, and he’s left feeling oddly giddy for a moment. The surge of fire in his blood kicked up dust, it leveled a portion of the thick forest of damning thoughts and left him a barren field full of nutrients waiting for new seeds to be sowed. With the momentary reprieve from his baggage Stiles finally feels all the other things that have been blocked out. The cool stillness of the spring air, the smoothness of his bedspread, the jagged edges of the zipper on his jacket, and the dull ache in his bones from being stationary for so long.

He hadn’t realized how numb he was until now. It’s not as if the world is somehow brighter or clearer, it seems the same as ever, it’s just that now he can actually get to it. Before it felt like he was separated from it by a thin layer of film, like he was trapped on the other side still. Part of him still feels that way, which sucks, but part of him is also free and it’s – it’s _weird_.

Before he can even worry about losing the momentum and keeping this newfound freedom a wave of foreign feelings hits him like a freight train. For a moment his whole body goes hot again, but in a different way – a way that makes him feel fuzzy from the inside out. Suddenly, the only thoughts in his head are _love, safe, want,_ and _here_ , and there’s only one place they could be coming from.

Once again he’s up and out of bed following an instinct, a feeling, _something_ , to a place he knows he’s safe. Because his dad was right, he _can’t_ leave things to get better on their own, hates it. He feels like he can’t let this moment pass him by, afraid that if he does he might not get the opportunity to do something about it again – might not have the energy or the heart for it. He’d be incredibly nervous any other day, but he’s filled to the brim with a soothing, calm, sureness.

These aren’t new feelings, it’s not new information, but without the oppressive rain cloud hovering over his thoughts they’re so _loud_ now. So loud that Stiles is wondering how in the hell he missed them, why he ever blocked them out in the first place. He feels so right basking in them that he doesn’t even think to knock when he gets to where it is his so badly needs to be right now.

Derek is waiting for him in the living room, standing as if he expected this much from Stiles, but his hair is sleep-mussed and he’s wearing a lazy tee and some sweatpants like he just woke up. He looks so soft and content, just like the feelings he’s broadcasting loud and clear through their bond. It makes every part of Stiles ache, and suddenly he remembers exactly why he blocked the feelings out when a sudden prick of paranoia creeps up on him.

“I – I was trying to keep my distance until I felt like I was safe to be around. Until I knew with one-hundred percent certainty that I wouldn’t hurt you.”

The air in the room feels heavy with the admission hanging in it now. Never one to show his cards, Derek’s facial expression hardly changes. “Do you know now?”

“No,” Stiles breathes out, stepping closer to the wolf, seeking out his warmth even though he’s scared to death he’ll freeze Derek. His chest tightens as the weight of what he so badly wants to say bears down on him. “I have no clue if I’m safe to be around, when or if I ever will be, but I couldn’t stay away today.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow, a movement that’s only subtly impatient. “Why is that?”

The spark takes another step closer, pulled by the north pole that is Derek Hale, and answers, “Because you were louder. Or maybe I was just listening today. Either way, I got your message.”

 “And what message is that?” Derek wonders, his face still a carefully controlled mask.

Stiles can feel the swell of emotions in the man across from him though, so he answers easily enough, “That you feel safe with me. That I’m safe with you. No matter what.”

Derek’s features soften, almost synching with the beat of emotions he’s internalizing. “That’s why you couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“No,” Stiles says in a rush, even more anxious than before. Derek’s calm demeanor is only so contagious.

“No?” Derek echoes.

He shakes his head quickly, “I couldn’t stay away because - because I finally found room to breathe today and my first thought was you. How much I’ve been _fighting_ you. And I’m tired of fighting you, of how I feel I about you, just because I’m scared.” Stiles lets out a deep breath and purposefully locks eyes with the wolf across from him, hoping to add meaning to the words he says next. “I couldn’t stay away because I want this, _us_ , and I felt like if I didn’t say that now I’d talk myself out of it like I have been for months.”

Derek bridges what little space is left between them and tentatively cups Stiles’ face. He searches every bit of the spark’s face, mapping Stiles out before he closes his eyes and asks in a small voice, “You want this?”

“Yes,” Stiles confesses, voice bordering on desperate as he brings his own hands to Derek’s arms.

“Good,” Derek whispers, looking down at Stiles’ mouth. “Because I’ve been talking myself out of this for _years_.”

Derek brings their lips together in a hard press, sighing out of his nostrils like it’s the biggest relief in the world to have been allowed this. He slides one hand around Stiles’ neck and the other down his side until he’s clutching at Stiles’ back, every movement he makes both careful and quick.

“Years?” Stiles croaks between one kiss and the next.

Derek only nods, too preoccupied with the thrill of getting his mouth on every inch of bare skin Stiles has to offer. He guides Stiles backward, until the spark’s back connects with a wall, and then buries his face in his neck, sucking a vicious red mark onto it. Stiles tilts his head back readily to give Derek free reign and lets out a faint groan when the wolf presses his blunt teeth over a tendon.

Their next kiss is hardly obscene, but the flush of emotions from Derek fighting for Stiles’ attention cause goosebumps to ripple across his skin. Everything is too hot, too much, but Derek seems to understand as he wordlessly peels away the layers of clothing covering the spark. One moment they’re pressed against each other in the living room, fighting for any measure of sweet sweet friction they can find. The next Stiles is pressed into Derek’s sheets, the alpha’s fingers working him open slow and steady before he slides into Stiles’ warmth.

“Look at me,” Derek commands in a hushed tone, reverently dragging a hand over Stiles’ scarred chest.

He cracks one of his eyes open, ready to respond, but Derek’s next inward thrust sends his eyes rolling backwards and his lids falling shut again. “ _Fuck_.”

Derek slows in his movements, only a fraction, and skates a thumb across Stiles’ cheekbone, wordlessly prompting the spark to open his eyes again, then he leans in for a kiss. His lips are only a faint brush against Stiles’ reddened mouth when he says, “I want you to look at me.” He drives home his point with a maddeningly slow roll of his hips.

The request is lost on Stiles as his eyes fall shut involuntarily once again, his body focusing only on touch and sound. Stiles slides a hand up Derek’s back and clutches at him, panting out, “Der-Derek you’re insane if you think I can – ah, _fuck_ – think I can keep my eyes open for this. My body can only – GOD – do so much.”

When he finally does manage to open his eyes again a small satisfied smirk colors Derek’s features. But Stiles doesn’t get to admire it for long because soon its pressed against his own smile. Their hot tongues slide against one another, prodding, searching, soothing. The kiss quickly turns gentle though as Derek breaks away from it to press feather-light pecks onto Stiles’ neck before he says, “I want you to try for me. Want you to look at me when you come.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles croaks before he reels Derek back in, biting his lips as soon as they’re against his again.

As Derek pushes and pulls against Stiles, faster and faster, a blinding white light builds behind Stiles’ eyes, the pleasure thrumming just beneath his skin spiking. Derek must sense it because he moves one hand to Stiles’ neck to support him and his thrusts instantly become erratic and shallow. Stiles catches Derek by his hair and holds on, melting into every point of contact between himself and the wolf.

When he comes he sees stars, every single one of them in the galaxies that are Derek’s eyes. Their locked gaze is brief, because Stiles can only keep his eyes open in the face or pure pleasure for so long, but something about it still wrenches his heart out and reforms it into something new. Something oddly whole despite the fact that it had nearly been torn to bits only three or so months ago.

Derek fucks him soft and slow through the aftershocks until Stiles coaxes him into letting go, into chasing his own release. He comes with a low groan and falls into Stiles’ chest, his hot breath blanketing across it. After a few moments to regain his composure, Derek rolls until Stiles is on top of him. He wastes no time burying his nose in Stiles’ hair, letting out a content sigh.

The spark smiles against him and runs his thumb along Derek’s chin, reveling in the scrape and scratch of the hair against the pads of his fingers. Between the happiness emanating from Derek and the left over lightness he’s carried with him from earlier, Stiles is feeling pretty content right now. Of course that only lasts so long before his thoughts are off again, ruining his hard earned peace of mind by overanalyzing things.

He’s halfway through another anxious thought about what tomorrow will bring when Derek tucks a finger under his chin and makes him look up. “Stop thinking so much.”

He presses Derek with a look. “You know it’s not that easy. Especially with me being me”

Derek capitulates and takes one of Stiles’ hands to rest it over his heart, covering the hand with his own. “Then talk to me until you’ve cleared some space out.”

Stiles presses his lips into a line and rests his head against Derek’s chest again, counting the moments of his silence with each beat of the wolf’s heart. When he reaches 17 he says, “I’m happy, really happy actually,” and his heart doesn’t skip a single beat, “It’s just… I feel like something bad is going to happen now because of it. Like it’s not gonna last.”

Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand as if warning him to brace himself as he says, “Tomorrow might not be great, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be awful either.” His voice is rough and used, but also soothing somehow as he continues, “If anything bad happens it will be because Beacon Hills is a hellmouth, not because you’re finally starting to feel okay again.”

He looks down and offers the spark a wan smile. “The universe doesn’t hate you that much.”

Stiles snorts, his breath fanning out against Derek’s lips. “Y’know, I’m not so sure. Sometimes it really feels like it does. I swear it’s got some personal vendetta against me.”

“I know the feeling,” Derek admits faintly, voice tinged with regrets from his own past. “But sometimes it’s just the luck of the draw; not every day can be a good one.”

Stiles looks up, eyebrows scrunched. “When did you become the mellow and wise one in this relationship?”

It’s Derek’s turn to laugh. “You were never mellow.”

“Neither were you,” Stiles scoffs.

He feels Derek shrug against him. “You need calm right now.” It’s so matter of fact, as if the shift in Derek’s mannerisms are as natural as a change in breathing rate. Like it’s not a big deal.

Stiles peels himself from Derek’s grasp and hovers over him. “Derek.”

The wolf cocks up an eyebrow.

“You know you don’t have to be my calm right? I can meditate or something to get that back.”

Derek smirks, no doubt laughing at the mental image of _Stiles meditating_. Once the moment has passed he brings a hand to Stiles’ cheek and his smile softens. “Have you ever considered the fact that my being calm might benefit me as much as it benefits you?”

“If that’s the case I could’ve used this like six years ago, dude. You’re a little late to the party.”

A heavy sigh fills the air between them before Derek pulls himself up into Stiles’ space. “We’ve only been bonded for two years.”

“ _Only_ two years,” Stiles echoes with a sarcastic lilt to his voice.

Derek growls and pushes him down so that he can lean over him. “I didn’t have any reason to be calm before,” and then, in a smaller voice, “I couldn’t help you back then.”

“You helped me plenty,” Stiles assures him weakly, his heart fluttering at the sudden seriousness emanating from Derek. “Pretty sure you’ve singlehandedly saved my ass the most out of everyone in the pack.”

He shakes his head, adamant about some other point Stiles is missing. “That’s not the same as helping you in the aftermath.”

Stiles places both palms against Derek’s pecs in an attempt to calm him, his fingers fanning out across the area greedily. “Look, I don’t want this conversation to spiral into some self-loathing thing okay? You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know, and not just by saving me from the latest baddie. I – you don’t need to put on a mask just for me, okay?” He slides his hands up to Derek’s neck and rests a thumb over the pulse point.

“You’re impossible,” Derek huffs. “This isn’t – It’s,” he rolls his eyes and turns his head.

“C’mon, use your words.”

He nips Stiles’ wrist and shoots him a glare. “When you’re calm, I’m calm. I couldn’t save you before and it – it did things to me...” He trails off and ducks his head. “You died, Stiles. Every other time something like this has happened you’ve made it out. There have been close calls, but you never died, and this time…”

Silence.

Stiles’ heart is either beating so fast it’s quiet as a humming bird’s wings or it’s stopped completely. His eyes track from one point to another on Derek’s face before settling as he manages to get out, “Come here.” He drags Derek into his arms and holds him against his chest before wrapping his legs around the wolf too. “Jesus I – I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“That’s a first,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles pinches him. “Shut up and let me figure it out okay, I need a minute.” He runs a trembling hand up and down Derek’s back and tries not to think about the anxiety gnawing at the edges of his psyche. When he’s managed to shove it back into its dark corner he speaks up. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you save me this time. I wanted to keep you safe and obviously I didn’t think some of the consequences of that through.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I need to,” Stiles answers, insistent. “I don’t care if it’s implied, or if you can _feel_ it. I need to _say_ it to you. I have to say it.”

Derek stills, understanding Stiles’ reasoning despite the fact that he doesn’t elaborate. Before the mood can get anymore dark Stiles says, “I think I found the thing Deaton was talking about.”

The wolf looks up. “Really.”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

 **EPILOGUE:**  
**Four months later**

Stiles rests his head on his arms and stares at his new familiar that’s presently on the kitchen island, across from him. He misses Apollo and Artemis, and their unique personalities, but he has to admit that having a maned wolf as his new familiar is pretty cool. They’re not wolves, look like foxes but aren’t – it’s a pretty good fit for Stiles.

He names her Hemera.

She doesn’t split like Leto did (creating his beloved Artemis and Apollo), but she does have a few weird quirks, namely: being able to set herself on fire like Stiles. Right now he’s training her to do just that, activate her powers. Or, trying anyway. She isn’t feeling it at the moment apparently. Truth be told, neither is Stiles. He’d rather veg out on the couch.

As if sensing Stiles’ want to slip into a day long coma, Derek steps into the room with a reminder. “You need to get ready.”

Stiles and Hemera lift their heads, looking back at him, unimpressed. “Says who?”

“I don’t know why I bother,” Derek grumbles under his breath as he turns around and walks right back out.

“He’s getting grumpy again – must be nervous,” Stiles stage whispers to his familiar.

“This is _your_ emissary ceremony,” Derek calls from somewhere else in the house.

Stiles drops down from the stool he was on and goes to find him. “Correction: _ours_. So, you need to get ready too.”

“The difference between me and you is that I’ve _been_ ready.”

“You wound me,” Stiles says with a mock frown. He reaches the bathroom where Derek is buttoning part of his Henley and leans against the doorframe. “And besides, I don’t see the point in getting all dressed up. I’m just gonna get my clothes all dirty during the ceremony anyway.”

Derek looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for some extra patience and then down again before brushing past Stiles. “I don’t care what you wear. Just hurry _up_.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out of the empty doorway. “You can’t leave without me. I’m the reason we’re having this ceremony.”

“I very much can, and _will_ , now go get dressed.”

~

Stiles sits on a large boulder in the middle of a clearing out in the preserve. His mind is aflutter and he’s nervous as can be, jittery and a little out of breath. He’s still not exactly thrilled about being the pack’s emissary - he’ll forever be concerned about the parts of him that are “dirty” - but that's not the reason he’s nervous. Right now he’s nervous because he’s _waiting_.

Despite all Derek and Stiles’ talk about one not leaving without the other, the two actually took separate cars to the preserve. Reason being: it’s part of the ceremony. Derek has to find Stiles. Search for the emissary he wants in his pack. According to Deaton, in the olden days there would be multiple options for an alpha werewolf to choose from, but today Derek only has one candidate. The spark has no doubts about Derek’s ability to find him in what will probably be record time, but he’s still anxious. Any moment Derek will come bursting through the tree line, full wolf no doubt, and Stiles isn’t sure he can complete the ceremony without stuttering in the face of Derek’s naked glory when he shifts back.

When the wolf emerges he stalks toward Stiles, low and on the prowl. It sends goosebumps cascading across the spark’s skin and a shiver up his spine. When Derek is in alpha shift like this their bond gets molten hot, livened by the wolf. As Derek reaches the foot of the boulder he shifts back, nice and slow. His fur recedes and his bones shift and pull in a way that sounds painful, but somehow Derek makes it look graceful. In the end his ruby eyes find their way back to Stiles, unwavering.

Stiles swallows thick and hard before shifting into a more comfortable position atop the rock. To start the ceremony, since Derek has so obviously chosen him, he holds out a hand and helps the wolf up. Stiles offers Derek a small smile, just between the two of them and the forest, and then closes his eyes to clear out his mind. Once he feels confident he can handle it, he calls upon all elements in his control, displaying his abilities to the alpha.

Earth comes first, a pillar rising to the west. The ground shifts around them in earnest and flowers bloom in a dazzling display, climbing up the rock toward the pair. Stiles’ eyes will remain closed for the entire display - more for the sake of control than anything else - but he can feel Derek’s burning gaze as if it were his coarse hands, and how impressed the wolf is.

Next comes water, to the north. A gentle wave of clouds forms overhead and descends slowly to blanket the ground in a light fog. Each petal on the flowers surrounding them kissed by the element.

To south, fire is invoked. Stiles can see it behind his eyes, the way his spark so readily burns, but he keeps the flame atop the third pillar small, a mere suggestion.

Fourth, to the east, Stiles calls upon air. Controlling all four elements at once had taken an extreme amount of patience in the beginning, and even now it’s taxing, but as he sits across from Derek he feels balanced. The wind swirls around them gently, playing at the hairs on their arms and the beads of water on the flowers.

Last, he adds himself to the equation. He coaxes his spirit from its slumber while drawing out the essence of the elements around him. His spark and the elements will mingle and fuse until finally settling in his core.

Stiles takes a deep breath and holds out his hands, palm up to allow his spark to pool between the two of them. “I bring these elements together and into my body in hopes of protecting the pack that has chosen me that I will now entrust my powers in. Earth, water, fire, and air are at peace within me as I am within these lands.”

With his words the winds pick up and encase each of the elements, corralling them toward Stiles’ spark. When near, the essences of all the elements are drawn out and pulled toward the spark until it shifts from a pitiful dark grey to a shimmering silver. Stiles lets out a breath he’d been holding for ages and opens his eyes, feeling light. He lets the feeling settle and releases the winds around them, then fire, then the water and the earth.

As Stiles drinks in his new spark and waits for it to cement itself, he meets Derek’s gaze. He offers his hands to the wolf and speaks, smiling lightly the whole time, “I know that there’s no other emissary you’re interested in right now, but I need to ask you if you’re sure, both because it’s in the rules and because I think you’re nuts for choosing me.”

Derek’s eyes track all over his face, red and warm as blood. There’s the faintest hint of exasperation traveling their bond, but it’s overtaken by a wave of positivity as Derek says, “I’ve never been more certain about anything.”

Stiles bows his head slightly to hide his reddened cheeks and clears his throat. “Well then, I’m your guy.” He looks up and tightens his grip on Derek’s hands. “I’ve never been great at speeches – funny, I know – but I’m promising you now that I’ll always be here to help you and the pack. No matter how much it changes or grows or whatever else.”

He releases Derek and scoots closer for the final bit. “Derek Hale, alpha to Beacon County and the Hale pack, do you accept me as your emissary?”

Derek’s red eyes gleam and brighten as he leans forward to say, “I accept.”

Something like a white-hot pain etches itself across Stiles’ chest as soon as the words are out of Derek’s mouth. When he pulls his collar down to address the issue he finds a triskele, bright and silver, in the center of his chest, right over a scar. It quickly fades into his skin as if it were never there at all.

Stiles lets out a shaky sigh and looks back up at Derek. “This kinda felt like a marriage ceremony to me, not one for an emissary.”

Derek rests his head against Stiles’. “It was one. A marriage of powers and trust.”

“You trust me?” Stiles asks in what he hopes is a neutral tone. It probably comes off nervous.

“Always, in the end.”

~

Stiles is spread out on the roof of his childhood home, arms tucked beneath his head as he looks up at the stars. When he feels Derek sit beside him he opens his mouth to continue a conversation he'd been having with the man earlier. “You sure you want to live together? With me?”

“We’ve talked about this,” Derek responds without missing a beat, despite the lack of transition back into the conversation.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind,” Stiles answers just as easily.

Derek looks down at him and lets his eyes flash for just a moment. “I’m sure.”

Stiles only nods.

“Are you?” Derek asks, voice the slightest bit hesitant.

The spark looks at him for a long and lingering moment before settling on, “It’s not that I’m not ready, or that I don’t want to. It’s just – a lot is changing. Y’know?”

Derek presses his lips into a line and lays down beside Stiles. “I do.”

Stiles’ hand finds his in the dark.

“You don’t have to move in right now if you don’t want to,” Derek offers as he drags his thumb across the top of Stiles' hand.

Stiles turns to him only to roll his eyes and turn back. “I _just_ packed everything up.”

“I could help you unpack.”

He elbows Derek. “Now I know you’re just messing with me.”

When he turns he catches the faintest hint of a smile playing at the alpha’s lips. Derek must feel him staring because he looks over and finishes his thought. “Change is good.”

“Tell that to your wardrobe.”

He narrows his eyes at the spark and amends, “Not all change is _bad_.”

Stiles smirks and squeezes the hand in his, looking back up at the sky as he says, “I know. It’s just an adjustment. One I’d like to make sure I get right.”

“I have faith in you.”

 _Oh..._ The admission warms Stiles all over. When he turns back to Derek he’s no longer watching him but looking up at the stars. Stiles smiles fondly at him and murmurs his thanks.

“Any time,” Derek responds, and it sounds an awful lot like _I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, okay, thank you so much for reading this and commenting. Reminder: I'll probably make this a series one day, maybe.  
> If you're subscribed to me and my fics, I'm most interested in working on my bounty hunter fic right now and that weird historical vampire AU, but I also have some tiny one-shots I might post in between here and then, and two other fics to update and revamp.
> 
> Anyway, I love you guys and happy reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Itinerary  
> Chapters 2-8 should be posted by September 12th at the latest.  
> Chapters 9-16 will probably come near the end of September. (it took me a little over a week to update 1-8 and that's literally the split middle word count of the fic so, gimme time)
> 
> Your time and patience is appreciated.


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